To understand Aunt Caroline's arrival at Friendly Bay we should have to understand Aunt Caroline, and that, as Euclid says, is absurd. Therefore we shall have to take the arrival for granted. The only light which she herself ever shed upon the matter was a statement that she "had a feeling." And feelings, to Aunt Caroline, were the only reliable things in a strictly unreliable world. To follow a feeling across a continent was a trifle to a determined character such as hers. To insist upon Dr. Rogers following it, too, was a matter of course.
"I shall need an escort," said Aunt Caroline to that astonished physician, "and you will do very nicely. If Benis is off his head, as you suggest, it is my plain duty to look into the matter and your plain duty, as his medical adviser, to accompany me. I am a woman who demands little from her fellow creatures, knowing perfectly well that she won't get it, but I naturally refuse to undertake the undivided responsibility of a deranged nephew galavanting, by your own orders, Doctor, at the ends of the earth."
"I did not say he was deranged," began the doctor helplessly, "and you said you didn't believe me anyway."
"Don't quote me to excuse yourself." Aunt Caroline sailed serenely on. "At least preserve the courage of your convictions. There is certainly something the matter with Benis. He has answered none of my letters. He has completely ignored my lettergrams. To my telegram of Thursday telling him that I had been compelled to discharge my third cook since Mabel for wiping dishes on a hand towel, he replied only by silence. And the telegraph people say that the message was never delivered owing to lack of address. Easy as I am to satisfy, things like this cannot be allowed to continue. My nephew must be found."
"But we don't know where to look for him," objected her victim weakly.
Aunt Caroline easily rose superior to this.
"We have a map, I hope? And Vancouver, heathenish name! must be marked on it somewhere. If not, the railroad people can tell us."
"But he is not in Vancouver."
"There—or thereabouts. When we get there we can ask the policeman, or," with a grim twinkle, "we can enquire at the asylums. You forget that my nephew is a celebrated man even if he is a fool."
The doctor gave in. He hadn't had a chance from the beginning, for Aunt Caroline could answer objections far faster than he could make them. They arrived at the terminus just four days after the expeditionary party had left for Friendly Bay.
If Aunt Caroline were surprised at finding more than one policeman in Vancouver, she did not admit it. Neither did the general atmosphere of ignorance as to Benis daunt her in the least. She adhered firmly to her campaign of question asking and found it fully justified when inquiry at the post-office revealed that all letters for Professor Benis H. Spence were to be delivered to the care of the Union Steamship Company. From the Union Steamship Company to the professor's place of refuge was an easy step. But Dr. Rogers, to whom this last inquiry had been intrusted, returned to the hotel with a careful jauntiness of manner which ill accorded with a disturbed mind.
"Well, we've found him," he announced cheerfully. "And now, if we are wise, I think we'll leave him alone. He is camping up the coast at a place called Friendly Bay—no hotels, no accommodation for ladies—he is evidently perfectly well and attending to business. You know he came out here partly to get material for his book? Well, that's what he's doing. Must be, because there are only Indians up there."
"Indians? What do you mean—Indians? Wild ones?"
"Fairly wild."
Aunt Caroline snorted. She is one of the few ladies left who possess this Victorian, accomplishment. "And you advise my leaving my sister's child in his present precarious state of mind alone among fairly wild Indians?"
"Well—er—that's just it, you see. He isn't alone—not exactly."
"What do you mean—not exactly?"
"I mean that his—er—secretary is with him. He has to have a secretary on account of never being sure whether receive is 'ie' or 'ei.' They are quite all right, though. The captain of the boat says so. And naturally on a trip of that kind, research you know, a man doesn't like to be interrupted."
Aunt Caroline arose. "When does the next boat leave?" She asked calmly.
"But—dash it all! We're not invited. We can't butt in. I—I won't go."
Aunt Caroline, admirable woman, knew when she was defeated. She had a formula for it, a formula which seldom failed to turn defeat into victory. When all else failed, Aunt Caroline collapsed. She collapsed now. She had borne a great deal, she had not complained, but to be told that her presence would be a "butting in" upon the only living child of her only dead sister was more than even her fortitude could endure! No, she wouldn't take a glass of water, water would choke her. No, she wouldn't lie down. No, she wouldn't lower her voice. What did hotel people matter to her? What did anything matter? She had come to the end. Accustomed to ingratitude as she was, hardened to injustice and desertion, there were still limits—
There were. The doctor had reached his. Hastily he explained that she had mistaken his meaning. And, to prove it, engaged passage at once, for the next upcoast trip, on the same little steamer which a few days earlier had carried Mr. and Mrs. Benis H. Spence.
It was a heavenly day. The mountains lifted them-selves out of veils of tinted mist, the islands lay like jewels—but Aunt Caroline, impervious to mere scenery, turned her thought severely inward.
"I suppose," she said to her now subdued escort, "that we shall have to pay the secretary a month's salary. Benis will scarcely wish to take him back east with us."
The doctor attempted to answer but seemed to have some trouble with his throat.
"It's the damp air," said Aunt Caroline. "Have a troche. If Benis really needs a secretary I think I can arrange to get one for him. Do you remember Mary Davis? Her mother was an Ashton—a very good family. But unfortunate. The girls have had to look out for themselves rather. Mary took a course. She could be a secretary, I'm sure. Benis could always correct things afterward. And she is not too young. Just about the right age, I should think. They used to know each other. But you know what Benis is. He simply doesn't—your cold is quite distressing, Doctor. Do take a troche."
The doctor took one.
"Of course Benis may object to a lady secretary—"
"By Jove," said Rogers as if struck with a brilliant idea. "Perhaps his secretary is a lady!"
"How do you mean—a lady! Don't be absurd, Doctor. You said yourself there was no proper hotel. Benis is discreet. I'll say that for him."
The doctor's brilliance deserted him. He twiddled his thumbs. But although Aunt Caroline's repudiation of his suggestion had been unhesitating there was a gleam of new uneasiness in her eye. She said no more. It was indeed quite half an hour before she remarked explosively.
"Unless it were an Indian!"
Her companion turned from the scenery in pained surprise.
"An Indian what?" he asked blankly.
"An Indian secretary—a female one."
"Nonsense. Indians aren't secretaries."
But Aunt Caroline had "had a feeling." "It was your-self who suggested that she might be a girl," she declared stubbornly, "and if she is a girl, she must be an Indian. Indians are different—look at Pullman porters."
The doctor gasped.
"Even I don't mind a Pullman porter," finished Aunt Caroline grandly.
"That's very nice," the doctor struggled to adjust him-self. "But Pullman porters are not Indians, and even if they were I can't quite see how it affects Benis and his lady secretary."
"The principle," said Aunt Caroline, "is the same."
Rogers wondered if his brain were going. At any rate he felt that he needed a smoke. Aunt Caroline did not like smoke, so comparative privacy was assured. Also, a good smoke might show him a way out of his difficulty.
It didn't. At the end of the second cigar the cold fact, imparted by the clerk in the steamship office, that Professor Spence and wife had preceded them upon this very boat, was still a cold fact and nothing more. The long letter from the bridegroom which would have made things plain had passed him on his trip across the continent and was even now lying, with other unopened mail, in his Bainbridge office.
If Benis were married, then the bride could be no other than the nurse-secretary he had written about in that one inconsequent letter to which he, Rogers, had replied with unmistakable warning. But the thing seemed scarcely credible. If it were a fact, then it might very easily be a tragedy also. Marriage in such haste and under such circumstances could scarcely be other than a mistake, and considering the quality of Benis Spence, a most serious one.
John Rogers was very fond of his eccentric friend and the threatened disaster loomed almost personal. He felt himself to blame too, for the advice which had thrown Spence directly from the frying-pan of Aunt Caroline into the fire of a sterner fate. Add to all this a keen feeling of unwarranted intrusion and we have some idea of the state of mind with which Dr. John Rogers saw the white tents of the campers as the steamer put in at Friendly Bay.
"There are two tents," said Aunt Caroline lowering her lorgnette. "I shall be quite comfortable."
The doctor did not smile. His sense of humor was suffering from temporary exhaustion and his strongest consciousness was a feeling of relief that neither Benis nor anyone else appeared to notice their arrival. Even the unique spectacle of a middle-aged lady in elastic-sided boots proceeding on tiptoe, and with all the tactics of a scouting party, toward the evidently deserted tents provoked no demonstration from anyone.
"They're not here!" called the scouting party in a carrying whisper.
"Obviously not." The doctor wiped his heated fore-head. "Probably they've gone for the night. Then you'll have to marry me to save my reputation."
"Jokes upon serious subjects are in very bad taste, young man," said Aunt Caroline. But her rebuke was half-hearted. She looked uneasy. "John," she added with sudden suspicion, "you don't suppose they could have known we were coming?"
"How could they possibly?"
"If she is an Indian, they might. I've heard of such things. I—oh, John! Look!"
"Snake?" asked John callously. Nevertheless he followed Aunt Caroline's horrified gaze and saw, with a thrill of more normal interest, a pair of dainty moccasins whose beaded toes protruded from the flap of one of the tents.
"Indian!" gasped Aunt Caroline. "Oh John!"
"Not a bit of it!" Our much tried physician spoke with salutary shortness. "They may be Indian-made but that's all. I'll eat my hat if it's an Indian who has worn them. Did you ever see an Indian with a foot like that?"
Indignation enabled Aunt Caroline to disclaim acquaintance with any Indian feet whatever.
"It's a white girl's moccasin," he assured her. "Lots of girls wear them in camp. Or," hastily, "it may be a curiosity. Benis may be making a collection."
Aunt Caroline snorted. Her gaze was fixed with almost piteous intensity upon the tent.
"D'you think I might go in?" she faltered.
"You might" said John carefully.
Aunt Caroline sighed.
"How dreadful to have traditions!" she murmured. "There's no real reason why I shouldn't go in. And," with grim honesty, "if you weren't here watching I believe I'd do it. Anyway we may have to, if they don't come soon. I can't sit on this grass. I'm sure it's damp."
"I'll get you a chair from Benis's tent," offered John unkindly. "There are no traditions to forbid that, are there?"
"No. And, John—you might look around a little? Just to make sure."
The doctor nodded. He had every intention of looking around. He felt, in fact, entitled to any knowledge which his closest observation might bring him. But the tent was almost empty. That at least proved that the tent belonged to Spence. He was a man with an actual talent for bareness and spareness in his sleeping quarters. Even his room at school had possessed that man-made neatness which one associates with sailor's cabins and the cells of monks. The camp-bed was trimly made, a dressing-gown lay across a canvas chair, a shaving mug hung from the centre pole—there was not so much as a hairpin anywhere.
John crossed thoughtfully to the folding stand which stood with its portable reading lamp beside the bed. There was one unusual thing there, a photograph. Benis, as his friend knew, was an expert amateur photographer—but he never perched his photographs upon stands. This one must be an exception, and exceptions are illuminating.
It was still quite light inside the tent and the doctor could see the picture clearly. It was an extraordinarily good one, quite in the professor's happiest style. Composition, lighting, timing, all were perfect. But it is doubtful if John Rogers noticed any of these excellencies. He was absorbed at once and utterly in the personality of the person photographed. This was a girl, bending over a still pool. The pose was one of perfectly arrested grace and the face which was lifted, as if at the approach of someone, looked directly out of the picture and into Roger's eyes. It was the most living picture he had ever seen. The lips were parted as if for speech, there was a smile behind the widely opened eyes. And both face and form were beautiful.
The doctor straightened up with a sharply drawn breath. It seemed that something had happened. For one flashing instant some inner knowledge had linked him with his own unlived experience. It was gone as soon as it came. He did not even realize it, save as a sense of strangeness. Yet, as a chemist lifts a vial and drops the one drop which changes all within his crucible, so some magic philtre tinged John Roger's cup of life in that one stolen look.
"Have you found anything?" Aunt Caroline's voice came impatiently.
"Nothing."
But to himself he added "everything" for indeed the mystery of Benis seemed a mystery no longer. The photograph made everything clear. And yet not so clear, either. The doctor looked around at the ship-shape bachelorness of the tent, at the neat pile of newly typed manuscript upon the bed, and felt bewildered. Even the eccentricity of Benis, in its most extravagant mode, seemed inadequate as a covering explanation.
Giving himself a mental shake, the intruder picked up the largest chair and rejoined Aunt Caroline.
"It's Benis right enough," he announced. "He is probably off interviewing Indians. I had better light a fire. It may break the news."
We left the professor somewhat abruptly in the midst of a cryptic ejaculation of "My Aunt!"
"How can it be your Aunt?" asked Desire reasonably.
"I don't know how. But, owing to some mysterious combination of the forces of nature, it is my Aunt. No one else could wear that hat."
"Then hadn't we better go to meet her? You can't sit here all night."
"I know I can't. It's too near. We didn't see her soon enough!"
"Cowardly custard!" said Desire, stamping her foot.
The professor's mild eyes blinked at her in surprise. "Good!" he said with satisfaction. "That is the first remark suitable to your extreme youth that I've ever heard you make. But the sentiment it implies is all wrong. Physical courage, as such, is mere waste when opposed to my Aunt. What is wanted is technique. Technique requires thought. Thought requires leisure. That is why I am sitting here behind a boulder—what is she doing now?"
Desire investigated.
"She is walking up and down."
"A bad sign. It doesn't leave us much time. The most difficult point is the introduction. Now, in an introduction, what counts for most? Ancestors, of course. My dear, have you any ancestors?"
"Not one."
"I was afraid of that. In fact I had intended to provide a few. But I never dreamed they would be needed so soon. What is she doing now?"
"She has stopped walking. She has turned. She is coming this way."
"Then we must take our chance." The professor rose briskly. "Never allow the enemy to attack. Come on. But keep behind me while I draw her fire."
Aunt Caroline advanced in full formation.
"Benis. Ben—nis!" she called piercingly. "He can't be very far away," she declared over her shoulder. "I have a feeling—Benis!"
"Who calls so loud?" quoted the professor innocently, appearing with startling suddenness from behind the boulder. "Why!" in amazed recognition. "It is Aunt Caroline!"
"It is." Aunt Caroline corroborated grimly.
"This is a surprise," exclaimed the professor. As we have noted before, he liked to be truthful when possible. "How'd'do, Aunt! However did you get here?"
"How I came," replied Aunt Caroline, "is not material. The fact that I am here is sufficient."
"Quite," said Benis. "But," he added in a puzzled tone, "you are not alone. Surely, my dear Aunt, I see——"
"You see Dr. Rogers who has kindly accompanied me."
"John Rogers here? With you?" In rising amazement.
"It is a detail." Aunt Caroline's voice was somewhat tart. "I could scarcely travel unaccompanied."
"Surely not. But really—was there no lady friend—"
"Don't be absurd, Benis!" But she was obscurely conscious of a check. Against the disturbed surprise of her nephew's attitude her sharpened weapons had already turned an edge. Only one person can talk at a time, and, to her intense indignation, she found herself displaced as the attacking party. Also the behavior of her auxiliary force was distinctly apologetic.
"Hello, Benis!" said Rogers, coming up late and reluctant. "Sorry to have dropped in on you like this. But your Aunt thought—"
"Don't say a word, my dear fellow! No apology is necessary. I am quite sure she did. But it might be a good idea for you to do a little thinking yourself occasionally. Aunt is so rash. How were you to know that you would find us at home? Rather a risk, what? Luckily, Aunt," turning to that speechless relative with reassurance, "it is quite all right. My wife will be delighted—Desire, my dear, permit me—Aunt, you will be glad, I'm sure—this is Desire. Desire, this is your new Aunt."
"How do you do?" said Desire. "I have never had an Aunt before."
It was the one thing which she should have said. Had she known Aunt Caroline for years she could not have done better. But, unfortunately, that admirable lady did not hear it. She had heard nothing since the shattering blow of the word "wife."
"John," she said hoarsely. "Take me away. Take me away at once!"
"Certainly," said John, "Only it's frightfully damp in the woods. And there may be bears."
"Bears or not. I can't stay here."
"Oh, but you must," Desire came forward with innocent hospitality. "You can sleep on my cot and I'll curl up in a blanket. I am quite used to sleeping out."
Aunt Caroline closed her eyes. It was true then. Benis Spence had married a squaw! Blindly she groped for the supporting hand of the doctor. "John," she moaned, "did you hear that? Sleeping out—oh how could he?"
"Very easily, I should think." Under the slight handicap of assisting the drooping lady to her chair, John Rogers looked back at Desire, standing now within the radius of the camp fire's light—and once again he felt the strangeness as of some half-glimpsed prophecy. "She is wonderful," he added. "Look!"
Aunt Caroline looked, shuddered, and collapsed again upon a whispered "Indian!"
"Nonsense!" Rogers almost shook her. And yet, considering the suggestive force of the poor lady's preconceived ideas, the mistake was not unpardonable. In those surroundings, against that flickering light, standing, straight and silent in her short skirt and moccasins, her leaf-brown hair tied with bracken and turned to midnight black by the shadows, her grey eyes mysterious under their dark lashes, and her lips unsmiling, Desire might well have been some beauty of that vanishing race. A princess, perhaps, waiting with grave courtesy for the welcome due her from her husband's people.
"And not a bit ashamed of it," murmured Aunt Caroline in what she fondly hoped was a whisper. "Utterly callous! Benis," in a wavering voice, "I had a feeling—"
"Wait!" interrupted Benis, producing a notebook and pencil. "Let us be exact, Aunt. Just when did you notice the feeling first?"
"What difference does that make?" Aunt Caroline's voice was perceptibly stronger.
"Why," eagerly, "don't you see? If you had the feeling at the time (allowing for difference by the sun) it is a case of actual clairvoyance. If the feeling was experienced previous to the fact then it is a case of premonition only, and, if after, the whole thing can be explained as mere telepathy."
"Oh," said Aunt Caroline. But she said it thoughtfully. Her voice was normal.
"Wonderful thing—this psychic sense," went on her nephew. "Fancy you're knowing all about it even before you got my letter!"
"Did you send a letter?" asked Aunt Caroline after a pause. "Why Aunt! Of course. Two of them. Before and after. But I might have known you would hardly need them. If you had only arrived a few days sooner, you might have been present at the ceremony."
"Ceremony? There was a ceremony?"
"My dear Aunt!"
"The Church service?"
"My dear Aunt!"
"In a church?"
"Not exactly a church. You see it was rather late in the evening. The care-taker had gone to bed. In fact we had to get the Rector out of his."
"Bern's!"
"He didn't mind. Said he'd sleep all the better for it. And he wore his gown—over his pyjamas—very effective."
"Had the man no conscientious scruples?" sternly.
"Scruples—against pyjamas?"
"Against mixed marriages."
"I don't know. I didn't ask him. We weren't discussing the ethics of mixed marriage."
"Don't pretend to misunderstand me, Benis. For a man who has married an Indian, your levity is disgraceful."
"How ridiculous, Aunt! If you will listen to an explanation—"
"I need no explanation," Aunt Caroline, once more mistress of herself rose majestically. "I hope I know an Indian when I see one. I am not blind, I believe. But as there seems to be no question as to the marriage, I have nothing further to say. Another woman in my place might feel justified in voicing a just resentment, but I have made it a rule to expect nothing from any relative, especially if that relative be, even partially, a Spence. When my poor, dear sister married your father I told her what she was doing. And she lived to say, 'Caroline, you were right!' That was my only reward. More I have never asked. All that I have ever required of my sister's child has been ordinary docility and reliance upon my superior sense and judgment. Now when I find that, in a matter so serious as marriage, neither my wishes nor my judgment have been considered, I am not surprised. I may be shocked, outraged, overwhelmed, but I am not surprised."
"Bravo!" said Benis involuntarily. He couldn't help feeling that Aunt Caroline was really going strong. "What I mean to say," he added, "is that you are quite right Aunt, except in these particulars, in which you are entirely wrong. But before we go further, what about a little sustenance. Aren't you horribly hungry?"
"I am sure they are both starved," said Desire. "And I hate to remind you that you ate the last sandwich. Will you make Aunt Caroline comfortable while I cut some more? Perhaps Dr. John will help me—although we haven't shaken hands yet."
She held out her hands to the uneasy doctor with a charming gesture of understanding. "Did you expect to see a squaw, too', Doctor?"
"I expected to see, just you." His response was a little too eager. "I had seen you before—by a pool, bending over—"
"Oh, the photograph? Benis is terribly proud of it,"
"Best I've ever done," confirmed the professor. "Did you notice the curious light effect on that silver birch at the left?"
"Wonderful," said Rogers, but he wasn't thinking of the light effect on the silver birch. As he followed Desire to the tent his orderly mind was in a tumult. "He doesn't know how wonderful she is!" he thought. "And she doesn't care whether he does or not. And that explains—" But he saw in a moment that it didn't explain anything. It only made the mystery deeper.
"And now, Benis, that we are alone—" began Aunt Caroline....
We may safely leave out several pages here. If you realize Aunt Caroline at all, you will see that at least so much self-expression is necessary before anyone else can expect a chance. Time enough to pick up the thread again when the inevitable has happened and her exhausted vocabulary is replaced by tears.
"Not that I care at all for my own feelings," wept Aunt Caroline. "There are others to think of. What will Bainbridge say?"
Her nephew roused himself. From long experience he knew that the worst was over.
"Bainbridge, my dear Aunt," he said, "will say exactly what you tell it to say. It was because we realized this that we decided to leave the whole matter in your hands—all the announcing and things. But of course," with resignation, "if we have taken too much for granted; if you are not equal to it, we had better not come back to Bainbridge at all."
"Oh," cried Aunt Caroline with fresh tears. "My poor boy! The very idea! To think that I should live to hear you say it! How gladly I would have saved you from this had I known in time."
"I am sure you would, Aunt. But the gladness would have been all yours. I did not want to be saved, you see, and people who are saved against their will are so frightfully ungrateful. Wouldn't you like a dry hanky? Just wait till you've had a couple of dozen sandwiches. You'll feel quite differently. Think what a relief it will be to have me off your mind. You can relax now, and rest. You've been overworking for years. Consider how peaceful it will be not to have to ask any more silly girls to visit. You know you hated it, really, and only did it for my sake."
"I did everything for your sake," moaned Aunt Caroline brokenly. "And they were silly. But I hoped you would not notice it. And you will never know what I went through trying to get them down for breakfast at nine."
"I can imagine it," with ready sympathy. "They always yawned. And there must have been many darker secrets which I never guessed. You kept them from me. Do you remember that hole in Ada's stocking?"
"Yes, but I—"
"Never mind. The fib wasn't nearly as big as the hole. But how could you expect me to help noticing the general lightness and frivolity of your visitors, shown up so plainly against the background of your own character?"
"Y-es. I didn't think of that"
"Perhaps I should never have married if I had not got away—from the comparison, I mean."
"There was a danger, I suppose. But," with renewed grief, "Oh, Benis, such a wedding! No cards, no cake—and in pyjamas—oh!"
"Come now, Aunt, don't give way! And do you feel that it is quite right to criticise the clergy? I always fancy that it is the first step toward free-thinking. And you couldn't see much of them, you know, only the legs. Besides, consider what a wedding with cards and cake would have meant in Bainbridge at this time. No second maid, no proper cook! We should have appeared at a disadvantage in the eyes of the whole town. As it is, we can take our time, engage competent help, select a favorable date and give a reception which will be the very last word in elegance."
"Yes! I could get—what am I talking about? Of course I shan't do anything of the kind. How can you ask me to? Oh, Benis—a heathen!"
"Not a bit of it, Aunt. Church of England. But I can see what has happened. You have been allowing old Bones to cloud your judgment. I never knew a fellow so prone to jump to idiotic conclusions. No doubt he heard that I had come in search of Indians and, without a single inquiry, decided that I had married one."
"It was hasty of him. I admit that," said Aunt Caroline wiping her eyes.
"But with your knowledge of my personal character you will understand that my interest in, and admiration for, our aborigines in their darker and wilder state—"
"John said they were only fairly wild."
"Well, even in a fairly wild state. Or indeed in a wholly tame one. My interest at any time is purely scientific and would never lead me to marry into their family circle. My wife's father, as a matter of fact, is English. A professional man, retired, and living upon a small—er—estate near Vancouver. Her mother, who died when Desire was a child, was English also."
"Who took care of the child?"
"A Chinaman." The professor was listening to Desire's distant laugh and answered absently with more truth than wisdom.
"What!" The tone of horror brought him back.
"Oh, you mean who brought her up? Her father, of course."
"You said a Chinaman."
"They had a Chinese cook."
"Scandalous! Had the child no Aunt?"
The professor sighed. "Poor girl," he said. "One of the first things she told me about herself was, 'I have no Aunt.'"
Aunt Caroline polished her nose thoughtfully.
"That would account for a great deal," she admitted. "And her being English on both sides is something. Now that you speak of it, I did notice a slight accent. I never met an English person yet who could say "a" properly. But she is young and may learn. In the meantime—"
"The sandwiches are ready," called Desire from the tent.
"And do you mean to tell me that she really believes that lie?"
Benis Spence had taken his medical adviser up the slope to the Indian burying-ground. It was the one place within reasonable radius where they were not likely to be interrupted by periodic appearances of Aunt Caroline. Aunt Caroline never took liberties with burying-grounds. "A graveyard is a graveyard," said Aunt Caroline, "and not a place for casual conversation." There-fore, amid the graves and the crosses, the friends felt fairly safe.
"Why shouldn't she believe it?" countered Spence. "Don't you suppose I can tell a lie properly?"
"To be honest—I don't."
"Well," somewhat gloomily, "this one seemed to go over all right. It went much farther than I ever expected. It's far too up-and-coming. The way it grows frightens me. At first there was nothing—just an 'experience.' A mild abstraction, buried in the past, a sentimental 'has-been' without form or substance. Then, without warning, the experience acquired a name, and then a history and then, just when I had begun to forget about it, hair suddenly popped up, yellow hair, and, the day after, eyes—blue eyes, misty. The nose remains indeterminate, but noses often do. Only yesterday I felt compelled to add a mouth. Small and red, I made it—ugh! How I hate a small red mouth. Oh, if it amuses you—all right!"
"Laugh at it yourself, old man! It's all you can do. But what a frightful list of blunders. If you had to tell a lie why didn't you take Mark Twain's advice and tell a good one? The name, for instance—why on earth did you choose 'Mary?' Even 'Marion' would have been safer. Don't you know you can't turn a corner in Bainbridge or anywhere else without stumbling over a Mary? There's a Mary in my office at the present minute and—yes, by Jove, she has golden hair!"
The professor looked stubborn.
"My Mary's hair was not golden. It was yellow, plain yellow. I remember I made a point of that."
"Well then, there's Mary Davis. You remember her?"
"The one who visited Aunt Caroline?"
"Yes. Pretty girl. About your own age! 'Twas thought in Bainbridge that her thoughts turned youward. Her hair was yellow then, and may be again by now. And she had blue eyes, bright blue."
"My Mary's were not bright blue. Hers were misty, like the hills."
"Forget it, old man! You'll find you won't be able to insist on shades. Any Mary with golden, yellow, tawny or tow-colored hair, and old blue, grey blue, Alice blue or plain blue eyes will come under Mrs. Spence's reflective observation. Your progress will be a regular charge of the light brigade with Marys on all sides."
"Now you're making yourself unpleasant," said the professor. "And, to change the subject, why do you insist upon calling Desire 'Mrs. Spence?' She calls you John."
To his questioner's infinite amazement the doctor blushed.
"She has told me I might," he admitted. "But it seemed so dashed cheeky."
"Why? You are at least ten years older than she. And a friend of the family."
"Ten years is nothing," said the doctor. "And I want to be her friend, not a friend of the family. Besides, she, herself, is not at all like the girls of twenty whom one usually meets."
"She is simpler, perhaps."
"In manner, but not in character. There is a distance, a poise, a—surely you feel what I mean."
"Imagination, John. It is you who create the distance by clinging to formality."
"All right. You're sure you don't object?"
"My dear Bones, why should I possibly?"
The doctor looked sulky. Benis smiled.
"Look here, John," he said after a reflective pause. "Desire is as direct as a child. If she calls you by your first name you can depend that she feels no embarrassment about it. So why should you? And there's another thing. She may not find everything quite easy in Bainbridge. She will need your frank and unembarrassed friendship—as well as mine."
"Yours?"
"Yes. You understand the situation, don't you? At least as far as understanding is necessary. And you are the only one who will understand. So you will be of more use to her than anyone else, except me. I am going to do my best to make her happy. It's my job. I am not turning it over to you. But there may be times when I shall fail. There may be times when I shan't know that she isn't happy—a lack of perspective or something. If ever there comes a time like that and you know of it, don't spare me. I have taken the responsibility of her youth upon my shoulders and I am not going to shirk. It will be her happiness first—at all costs."
"People aren't usually made happy at all costs," said the doctor wisely.
"They may be, if they do not know the price."
"I see."
"You'll know where I stand a bit better when you've read a letter you'll find waiting for you at home. But here is the whole point of the matter—I had to get Desire away from that devilish old parent of hers. And marriage was the only effective way. But Desire did not want marriage. She has never told me just why but I have seen and heard enough to know that her horror of the idea is deep seated, a spiritual nausea, an abnormal twist which may never straighten. I say 'may,' because there is a good chance the other way. All one can do is to wait. And in the meantime I want her to find life pleasant. She once told me that she was a window-gazer. I want to open all the doors."
"Except the one door that; matters," said Rogers gloomily.
"Nonsense! You don't believe that. Life has many things to give besides the love of man and woman."
"Has it? You'll know better some day—even a cold-blooded fish like you."
"Fish?" said Spence sorrowfully. "And from mine own familiar friend? Fish!"
"What will you do," exploded the doctor, "when she wakes up and finds how you have cheated her? When she realizes, too late, that she has sold her birthright?"
The professor rose slowly and dusted the dry grass from the knees of his knickers. "Tut, tut!" he said, "the subject excites you. Let us talk about me for a change. Observe me carefully, John, and tell me what you think of me. Only not in marine language. Am I an Apollo? Or a Greek god? Or even a movie star of the third magnitude? Or am I, not to put too fine a point on it, as homely as a hedge fence?"
"Oh, hang it, Benis, stop your fooling."
"I'm not fooling. I want you to understand that I have consulted my mirror. And I know just how likely I am to appeal to the imagination of a young girl. I take my chance, nevertheless. Your question, divested of oratory, means what shall I do if Desire finds her mate and that mate is not myself? My answer, also divested of oratory, is that I do not keep what does not belong to me. Is that plain?"
The doctor nodded. "Plain enough," he said. "But how will you know?"
"Well, I might guess. You see," resuming his seat and his ordinary manner at the same time, "Desire is my secretary. I make a point of studying the psychology of those who work with me. And, aside from the slight abnormality which I have mentioned, Desire is very true to type, her own type—a very womanly one. And a woman in love is hard to mistake. But," cheerfully, "she is only a child yet in matters of loving. And she may never grow up."
"You seem quite happy about it."
"'Call no man happy till he is dead.' And yet—I am happy. If tears must come, why anticipate them?"
"There speaks the hopeless optimist," said Rogers, laughing. "But because I called you a fish, I'll give you a bit of valuable advice. I can't see you scrap quite all your chances. Kill Mary."
"I can't. Besides, why should I? Desire likes to hear about her. Or says she does. It provides her with an interest. And a little perfectly human jealousy is very stimulating."
"You think she is jealous?"
"Oh, not in the way you mean. But every woman likes to be first, even with her friends. And if she can't be first, she is healthily curious about the woman who is. Desire would miss Mary very much."
"You've been a fool, Benis."
"I shall try not to be a bigger one."
The friends looked polite daggers at each other. And suddenly smiled.
"To be continued in our next," said Rogers. "Is it finally settled that we turn homeward tomorrow?"
"Yes. We did our last extracting from the hawk-eyed one yesterday. He has been a real find, John. Do you know what he calls Aunt Caroline? 'The-old-woman-who-sniffs-the-air.' Desire did not translate. Isn't she rather a wonder, John? Did you ever see anything like the way she manages Aunt?"
But the doctor's eyes were on the distant tents.
"Someone in blue is waving to us," he said. "It must be your Aunt."
Spence lazily raised his eyes.
"No. That's Desire. She is wearing blue."
"She was wearing pink this morning."
"Yes. But she won't be wearing it this afternoon."
"How do you know?" curiously.
The professor yawned. "By psychology! I happened to mention that pink was Mary's favorite color."
Rogers opened his lips. He was plainly struggling with himself.
"Don't trouble," said Spence serenely. "I know what you feel it your duty to say. But it isn't really your duty. And there would be no use in saying it, anyway. I take my chances!"
The long Transcontinental puffed steadily up toward the white-capped peaks of a continent. They were a day out from Vancouver—a day during which Desire had sat upon the observation platform, drugged with wonder and beauty. She had known mountains all her life. They were dear and familiar, and the sound of rushing water was in her blood. But these heights and depths, these incredible valleys, these ever-climbing, piling hills pushing brown shoulders through their million pines, the dizzy, twisting track and the constant marvel of the man-made train which braved it, held her spellbound and almost speechless.
Fortunately, Aunt Caroline was indisposed and had remained all day in the privacy of their reserved compartment. Only one such reservation had been available and the men of the party had been compelled to content themselves with upper berths in the next car.
To Desire, who presented that happy combination, a good traveller still uncloyed by travel, every deft arrangement of the comfortable train provided matter for curiosity and interest—the little ladders for the upstair berths, the tiny reading-lamps, the paper bags for one's new hat, the queer little soaps and drinking cups in sealed oil paper—all these brought their separate thrill. And then there was the inexhaustible interest of the travellers themselves. When night had fallen and the great Outside withdrew itself, she turned with eager eyes to the shifting world around her, a human world even more absorbing than the panorama of the hills.
What was there, for instance, about that handsome old lady, from Golden (fascinating name!) which permitted her to act as if the whole train were her private suite and all the porters servants of her person? She was the most autocratic old lady Desire had ever seen and far younger and more alert than the tired-looking daughter who accompanied her. They were going to New York. They went to New York every year. Desire wondered why.
She wondered, too, about the rancher's wife going home to Scotland for the first time since her marriage. What did it feel like to be going home—to a real home with a mother and brothers and sisters? What did it feel like to be taking two dark-haired, bright-eyed babies, as like as twins and with only a year between them, for the fond approval of grand-parents across the seas? ... The rancher's wife looked as if she enjoyed it. But women will pretend anything.
Desire's eyes shifted to the inevitable honeymoon couple who were going to Winnipeg to visit "his" people. The bride was almost painfully smart, but she was pretty and "he" adored her. Her mouth was small and red. It fascinated Desire. She could not keep her eyes off it. It was like—well, it was the kind of mouth men seemed to admire. She tried honestly to admire it her-self, but the more she tried the less admirable she found it. She wondered if Benis—
"What do you think of the bride?" she murmured, under cover of a magazine.
"Where?" said Benis, in an unnecessarily loud voice, laying down his paper.
"S-ssh! Over there. The girl in green."
"Pretty little thing," said Benis. His tone lacked conviction.
"Lovely eyes, don't you think? Nice hair and such a darling nose. But her mouth—isn't her mouth rather small?"
"Regular 'prunes and prisms,'" agreed Benis.
"It is very red, though."
"Lipstick, probably."
"But I thought you liked small, red mouths."
"Hate 'em," said Benis, who had a shockingly bad memory.
Desire went to bed thoughtful. "I suppose," she thought as she lay listening to the swinging train, "men like certain things because they belong to certain people and not because they like them really at all." This was not very lucid but it seemed to satisfy Desire for she stopped thinking and went to sleep.
Morning found them on the top of the world. Desire was up and out long before the mists had lifted. She watched the wonder of their going, she saw the coming of the sun. She drew in, with great deep breaths, the high, sweet air. The cream of her skin glowed softly with the tang of it.
"Quite lovely!" said a voice behind her, and Desire turned to find her solitude shared by the young old lady from Golden.
"Your complexion, I mean, my dear," said she, sitting down comfortably in the folds of a fur coat. "I never use adjectives about the mountains. It would seem impertinent. How old are you?"
Desire gave her age smiling. "Charming age," nodded the old lady. "Youth is a wonderful thing. See that you keep it."
"Like you?" said Desire, her smile brightening.
The old lady looked pleased.
"Quite so," she said. "Never allow yourself to believe that silly folly about a woman being as old as she looks. As if a mirror had more mind than the person looking in it! I remember very well waking up on the morning of my thirtieth birthday and thinking, 'I am thirty. I am growing old.' But, thank heaven, I had a mind. I soon put a stop to that. 'Not a day older will I grow!' I said. And I never have. What's a mind for, if not to make use of?"
Desire looked a little awed at an audacity which defied time.
"Don't misunderstand me," went on her companion. "I don't mean that I tried to look young. I was young. I am young still."
"Yes," said Desire. "I see what you mean. But—wasn't it lonely?"
The old lady patted her arm with an approving hand.
"Clever child!" she said. "Yes, of course it was lonely. But one can't have everything. Pick out what you want most and cling to it. Let the rest go. It's a good philosophy."
"Isn't it selfish?"
"Youth is always selfish," complacently. "I feel quite complimented now when anyone calls me a selfish creature. You are a bride, aren't you?"
Desire blushed beautifully. But one couldn't resent so frank an interest.
"Yes," she said.
"That thin, dark man is your husband? The one with the chin?"
"He has a chin," doubtfully. "Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, he is my husband."
"Odd you never noticed his chin before," commented the old lady. "Well, look out! That man has reserves. Who is the other one?"
"A friend."
The old lady shook a well-kept finger.
"Inconvenient things, friends!" said she. "Far better without them."
"Haven't you any?"
"Not one. They went on. All old fogies now." Her air of boredom was unfeigned.
"But you have your daughter."
"Too old!" The youthful eyes twinkled maliciously. "Now you, my dear, would be nearer my age. For you have youth within as well as without. Keep it. It's all there is worth having."
Desire smiled. But the words lingered. She had never valued her youth. She had been impatient of it. And now to be told that it was all there was worth having! It was the creed of selfishness. And yet—had life already given her one of her greatest treasures and had she come near to missing the meaning of the gift?
At breakfast she observed her husband's chin so narrowly that he became uneasy, wondering if he had forgotten to shave. She looked at John's chin, too, with reflective eyes. Undoubtedly it was much inferior.
The train had conquered the mountains now and was plunging down upon their farther side. Soon they were in the foot-hills and then nothing but a flashing streak across an endless, endless tableland of wheat. Desire, who had never seen the prairie, smiled whimsically.
"It is like coming from the world's cathedral to the world's breakfast-table!" said she.
Aunt Caroline snorted. For her part, she said, she found train breakfasts much the same anywhere except near the Great Lakes, where one might expect better fish.
It grew very hot. The effortless speed of the train rolled up the blazing miles and threw them behind, league on league. The sun set and rose on a level sky. The babies of the rancher's wife grew tired and sticky. They were almost too much for their equally tired mother, so half of them sat on Desire's lap most of the time. Desire's half seemed to bounce a great deal and gave bubbly kisses, but the rings around its fat wrist and the pink dimples in its fingers were well worth while keeping clean and cool just to look at. It was true, as Desire reminded herself, that she did not care for children, but anyone might find a round, fat one with cooey laughs a pleasant thing to play with! She did it mostly when Benis was in the smoker with John.
At Winnipeg the honeymoon couple left them and the old lady from Golden, much to her disgust, was also compelled to stay over for a day because her middle-aged daughter was train-sick. Other and less interesting faces took their places.
Desire watched them hopefully but the only one who seemed appealing was a sturdy prairie school teacher going "home." Desire liked the school teacher. She was so solid, so sure of herself, so wrapped up in and satisfied with something which she called "education." She asked Desire where she had been educated. Desire did not seem to know. "Just anywhere," she said, "when father felt like it and had time. And I taught myself shorthand."
"Then you aren't really educated at all?" said the teacher with frank pity. "What a shame! Education is so important."
Benis was frankly afraid of her.
"But you need not be," Desire assured him. "She looks up to you. She thinks that, being a professor, you have even more education than she has."
"God forbid!" said Benis devoutly.
"Besides, she knows all about you. I found out today that she is an Ontario girl. And she lives—guess where? In Bainbridge!"
Aunt Caroline (they were at dinner) looked up from her roast lamb and remarked "Impossible."
"But she does, Aunt. She says so."
Aunt Caroline fancied that probably the young person was mistaken. "Certainly," she said, "I have never heard of her."
"She lives," said Desire, "on Barker Street and she took her first class teacher's certificate at Bainbridge Collegiate Institute."
Aunt Caroline fancied that they gave almost anyone a certificate there. All one had to do was to pass the examinations. As to Barker Street—there was a Barker Street, certainly. And this young person might live on it. She, herself, was not acquainted with the neighborhood.
"But she knows you," Desire persisted. "She said, 'Oh, is Miss Caroline Campion your Aunt? I remember her from my youth up.'"
"Very impertinent," said Miss Campion. Her nephew's eyes began to twinkle.
"Oh, everyone knows Aunt Caroline," he explained. "But then, everyone knows the Queen of England."
Aunt Caroline was mollified. "Of course, in that sense—" She felt able to go on with her roast lamb.
Dr. Rogers, who had listened to this interchange with delight, said now that the young lady had been quite right about her place of residence. She did live in Bainbridge, on Barker Street. He did not know her personally but her older sister was a patient of his. The mother and father were dead. Very nice, quiet people.
Desire was quite young enough to laugh and to point this with "Dead ones usually are."
The school teacher, at another table, heard the laugh and felt a passing sense of injustice. It seemed unfair that anyone so obviously without education could feel free to laugh in that satisfying way. It was plain that young Mrs. Spence scarcely realized her sad deficiency. And it certainly was a little discouraging that the cleverest men almost invariably....
Fort William came and passed and in the sparkling sunshine of another morning the train dashed into the wild Superior country where the wealth lies under the rock instead of above it. To Desire, her first glimpse of the Great Lake was like a glimpse of home. The coolness of the air was grateful after prairie heat but, scarcely had she welcomed back the smell of pine and fir, before it, too, was left behind and they swung swiftly into a softer land—a land of rolling fields and fences and farmhouses; of little towns, with tree-lined roads; of streams less noisy and more disciplined; of fat cows drowsy in the growing heat.
"This," said Aunt Caroline with a breath of proprietary satisfaction, "is Ontario."
Desire, always literal, pointed out that according to the map in the time-table, they had been in Ontario for some considerable time.
Aunt Caroline thought that the map was probably mistaken. "For," she added with finality, "it was certainly not the Ontario to which I have been accustomed."
This settled the matter for any sensible person.
"We are nearly home now," she went on kindly. "I hope you are not feeling very nervous, my dear."
"I am not feeling nervous at all," said Desire with surprise.
Fortunately Aunt Caroline took this proof of insensibility in a flattering light.
"Yes, yes," she said. "It is not, of course, as if you were arriving alone. You can depend upon me entirely. John, are you sure that your car will be in waiting?"
"I wired it to wait," grinned John. "And usually it's a good waiter."
"Because," said Aunt Caroline, "we do not wish to be delayed at the station. If Eliza Merry weather is there, the quicker we get away the better. I am determined that she shall be introduced to Desire exactly when other people are and not before. Please remember that, Benis. Introduce Desire to no one at the station. I think, my dear, we may put on our hats."
"It's an hour yet, Aunt."
"I know, but I do not wish to be hurried."
Desire put on her hat. It was because she was always willing to give Aunt Caroline her way in small matters that she invariably took her own in anything that counted. It is a simple recipe and recommended to anyone with Aunts....
"There's Potter's wood!" said Benis, who had been somewhat silent.
Desire looked out eagerly. But Potter's wood was just like any other wood and—
"There's Sadler's Pond!" said John.
"They've cut down the old elm!" Aunt Caroline voiced deep displeasure.
"And put up a bill-board," said Benis.
Desire felt a trifle lonely. These people, so close to her and yet so far away, were going home.
"Oh, how I wish you weren't stopping off," said the rancher's wife, an actual tear on her flushed cheek. "You've been so kind, Mrs. Spence. And anyone more understanding with children I never saw. When you've got a boy like my Sandy for your own—"
"By jove!" exclaimed Benis. "They're starting to cut down Miller's hill at last."
Aunt Caroline rose flutteringly. "There is the water-tank," she announced in an agitated voice. "Desire, where is your parasol? My dear, don't kiss that child again, it's sticky. WHERE is my hand-bag? John, do you see your car?"
"I don't SEE it," admitted John, "but—"
"Bainbridge!" shouted the brakeman.