text:
The Pines of Lory/Chapter 6

T one o’clock the lunch was served. Pats had placed before the lady a portion of a ham, a plate of crackers, some marmalade, and a bottle of claret.

“There are provisions in the cellar,” he said, “to last a year: sacks of flour, dried apples, preserved fruits, potatoes, all sorts of canned things, and claret by the dozen.”

As he spoke, he laid his hand upon the back of the chair that held the miniature,–the seat opposite her own.

“Don’t sit there!” she exclaimed. “We must respect the customs of the house.”

“Of course!” and he drew up another seat.

Food and a little wine tended to freshen the spirits of both travellers. Pats especially acquired new life and strength. The arrival of a glass or two of claret in his yearning stomach revived his hopes and loosened his tongue. Noticing that her eyes were constantly returning to the little portrait that faced her, he said, at last:

“By the way, there is something in the cellar that may throw some light on this lady, or on that empty grave back there.” And he nodded toward the pines.

“What is that?”

“A coffin.”

He smiled at her surprise and horror. In a low voice, she murmured:

“It is empty, of course!”

“Yes, I raised the lid.”

“What can it mean?”

“I have no idea, unless some one disappointed somebody else by remaining alive, when he–or she–ought to be dead. That sometimes happens.”

“It is very mysterious,” and she looked into the eyes of the miniature as if for enlightenment.

“Very, indeed; but on the other hand, certain things are pretty evident. Such as the character of our host, and various points in his career.”

“You mean that he is a hermit with a history?”

“Yes, and more specific than that!” Then, turning about in his chair and surveying the room: “He is an aristocrat, to begin with. These works of art are ancestral. They are no amateur’s collection. Moreover, he left France because he had to. A man of his position does not bring his treasures into the wilderness for the fun of it. And when he settled here he had no intention of being hunted up by his friends–or by his enemies.”

Elinor, with averted eyes, listened politely, but with no encouraging display of interest.

“But let us be sure he is not within hearing,” Pats added, and he stepped to the door and looked about. “Not a sail in sight.”

At this point Solomon renewed his efforts to get his master to follow him, but in vain.

“Why don’t you go with him?” said Elinor. “He may have made an important discovery, like the graves, perhaps.”

“More likely a woodchuck’s hole, or a squirrel track. Besides,” he added, with a smile, as he dropped into his chair again, “these broomsticks of mine have collapsed once to-day, and I am becoming cautious. It has been a lively morning–for a convalescent.”

With a look that was almost, but not quite, sympathetic, she replied: “You have done too much. Stay here and rest. I will go with him, just for curiosity.”

She went out, preceded by the bounding Solomon. Through the open door Pats watched them, and into his face came a graver look as he followed, with his eyes, the graceful figure in the gray dress until it disappeared from the sunlight among the shadows of the forest.

That he and she were stranded at a point far away from his own home he had little doubt. No such extraordinary house as this could have existed within fifty miles of Boyd’s Island without his hearing of it. Moreover, he keenly regretted on her account his own physical condition. Since rising from his bed of fever he had carefully avoided all fatigue, according to his doctor’s injunction. But now, after this morning’s efforts, his legs were weak and his head was flighty. Things showed a tendency to dance before his eyes in a way that he had not experienced heretofore. When he lay upon the ground an hour ago he did it, among other reasons, to avoid tumbling from dizziness and exhaustion.

The lady’s situation was bad enough already. To have a collapsible man upon her hands was a supreme and final calamity that he wished to spare her. He leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on the heavy carving beneath the table. How good it was, this relaxation of all one’s muscles!

The pompous rooster, with a few favorites of his seraglio, came and stood about the open door, eying him in disapproval, and always muttering.

In looking idly about Pats found himself becoming interested in the huge tapestry extending across the room at his right,–the one that served as a screen to the bedchamber. While no expert in no such matters, he recognized in this tapestry a splendid work of art, both from its color and wealth of detail, and from the quality of its material. The more he studied it, the deeper became his interest–and his amusement. The scene, a formal Italian garden of the sixteenth century, of vast dimensions, showed fountains and statues without limit, and trees trimmed in fantastic shapes, with a château in the background. But the central group of figures brought a smile to his face. For, while the gardens were filled with lords and ladies of the court of Henri III., those in the foreground being nearly the size of life,–all clad in their richest attire, feathers in their hats, high ruffs about the neck, and resplendent with jewels, the ladies in stiff bodices and voluminous skirts,–there were two figures in the centre in startling contrast with their overdressed companions. These two, a man and a woman, wore nothing except a garland of leaves about the hips.

Pats smiled and even forgot his fatigue, as he realized that he was gazing upon a serious conception of the Garden of Eden. And the bride and groom showed no embarrassment. The groom was pointing, in an easy manner, to anything, anywhere, while the bride, in a graceful but self-conscious pose, ignored his remarks.

And all the lords and ladies round about accepted, as a matter of course, the nakedness of this unconventional pair. While still fascinated by the brazen indifference of this famous couple, and pleasantly shocked by their disregard for all the rules of propriety, he was aroused by the sudden appearance in the doorway of Elinor Marshall. She had evidently been hurrying. There was excitement in her voice, as she exclaimed:

“He is here! He has come back!”

“The owner?”

“Yes, he is taking a nap on a bench, on the other side of the point.”

In another moment Pats was beside her, both walking rapidly through the wood. Approaching the western edge of the point, they saw, between the trees, a figure sitting upon a bench, overlooking the water, his back toward them. With one elbow upon an arm of the rustic seat, his cheek resting on his hand and his knees crossed, he seemed in full enjoyment of a nap.

Pats took a position in front of the sleeper, at a respectful distance, then said, in a voice not too loud:

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

There was no responsive movement. When it became clear that he had not been heard, Pats stepped a very little nearer and repeated, in a louder tone:

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

Still the sleeper slept.

Pats glanced at Elinor Marshall, who smiled, involuntarily. Pats also smiled, as he realized that this ceremonious and somewhat labored greeting had a distinctly comic side, especially when so completely thrown away. However, he was about to repeat the salutation and in a louder voice, when he was struck by the color of the hand against the cheek. He went nearer and, stooping down, looked up into the sleeper’s face. A glance was enough.

Slowly he straightened up, then reverently removed his hat.

Elinor, with a look of awe, came nearer and whispered:

“Dead! Is it possible!”

For a moment both stood in silence, looking down upon the seated figure. It was that of an elderly man, short, and slight of frame, with thick gray hair, and a beard cut roughly to a point. The face, brown, thin, and bony, was unduly emphasized by a Roman nose, too large for the other features. But the face, as a whole, impressed the two people now regarding it as almost handsome. He was clad in a dark gray suit, and a soft felt hat lay upon the seat beside him.

“How long has he been here, do you think?” asked Elinor, in a low voice.

“A day or two, I should say. His clothes are a little damp, and there are pine-needles on his shoulders and on his head.”

“But how dreadfully sudden it must have come! Not a change in his position, or in his expression, even.”

“An ideal death,” said Pats. “I have helped bury a good many men this year, both friends and enemies, but very few went off as comfortably as this.”

He took out his watch, seemed to hesitate a moment, then said, reluctantly:

“This is bad for us, you know, finding him dead this way.”

“Why?”

“It means there is no boat to get away with.”

A look of alarm came into her face.

“We may as well face the situation,” he continued, looking off over the water. “This man lived here alone, as we know from what we have seen in his house. And he evidently selected this place, not wishing to be disturbed. We are at the end of a bay at least ten miles deep, with no settlement in sight. There is nothing whatever to bring a visitor in here. The traffic of the gulf is away out there, perhaps thirty miles from here.”

She made no reply. Venturing to glance at her face, he saw there were no signs of anger, only a look of anxiety.

“I will tell you just what I think, Miss Marshall, and you can act accordingly. I shall, of course, do whatever you wish. But, as nearly as I can judge, we are prisoners until we can get away by tramping through the wilderness.”

He indicated, with a gesture, the broad current at their feet, washing the western edge of the point. “That river we can never cross without a boat, or a raft; and in that direction–I don’t know how many miles away–is Boyd’s Island. In the other direction, to the east, there is nothing but wilderness for an indefinite distance. That is, I think so. Now, if you prefer, I will go up this bank of the river at once, tie some logs together and try for a passage; then push on as fast as possible for our place, or the nearest settlement, and come back for you. Or, I will stay until we can go on together. Whatever you decide shall be done.”

He had spoken rapidly, and was ill at ease, watching her earnestly all the while.

As for her, she was dismayed by his words. She had been listening with a growing terror. Now, she turned away to conceal a tendency to tears. But this was repressed. With no resentment, but with obvious emotion, she inquired:

“Can you get across the river?”

“Very likely.”

“If you fail, or if anything happens to you, what becomes of me?”

“You would be here alone, and in a very bad plight. For that reason I think I would better stay until we can start together.”

A slight gesture of resignation was her only reply. There was a pause; uncomfortable for Pats from his consciousness of her low opinion of him. However, he continued, in a somewhat perfunctory way, turning to the silent occupant of the bench.

“Now, as we take possession of this place, the least we can do is to give the owner a decent burial. Fortunately for us a grave is dug and a coffin ready.”

“Yes, his grave and his coffin,” and she regarded with a gentler expression the sitting figure. “And I think I know why he dug the grave.”

“To save somebody else the trouble?”

“To be sure of resting beside his companion.”

“Of course! that explains it all. He knew that strangers might bury him in the easiest place; that they would never chop through all those roots.”

He stepped around behind the body, placed his hands under the arms, and made an effort to raise it, but the weight was beyond his strength. Looking toward his companion with an apologetic smile, he said: “I am sorry to be so useless, but–together we can carry him, if you don’t mind.”

At this suggestion Elinor, with a look of horror, took a backward step.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “for suggesting it. I have been doing so much of this work that I had forgotten how it affected others.”

“What work?”

“Burying people. In the Transvaal. One morning, with a squad, I buried twenty-eight. Nine of them my own friends. So, if I go about this in the simplest way, do not think it is from want of sympathy.”

“I shall understand.”

“Then I will bring that wheelbarrow I saw behind the house.”

He started off, then stopped as if to say something, but hesitated.

“What is it, Mr. Boyd?”

“I am afraid that coffin is too heavy for me. Would you mind helping with it?”

“No. And I can help you with the body, too, if necessary.” And together they returned to the cottage.

Never, probably, did simpler obsequies befall a peer of France.

Sitting up in the same position as on the rustic bench, his cheek upon his hand, his elbow on the side of the barrow, the hermit was wheeled to his final resting-place beneath the pines. Beside him, with a helping hand, walked Elinor Marshall, shocked and saddened by these awful incongruities.

Behind came Solomon.

Among the pines, in the solemn shade of this cathedral, grander and more impressive than any human temple, moved the little procession.

No requiem; only the murmuring in the boughs above, those far-away voices, dearer to him, perhaps,–and to his companion in the grave beside,–than all other music.

title: The Pines of Lory/Chapter 6


text:
The Pines of Lory/Chapter 7

HE supper that evening was late.

After the simple repast–of crackers, tongue, and a cup of tea–Pats and Elinor strolled out into the twilight and sat upon a rock. The rock was at the very tip of the point, overlooking the water to the south.

On the right, off to the west, the land showed merely as a purple strip in the fading light, stretching out into the gulf a dozen miles or more. Behind it the sinking sun had left a bar of crimson light. To the east lay another headland running, like its neighbor, many miles to the south. These two coasts formed a vast bay, at whose northern extremity lay the little point at which Miss Elinor Marshall and Mr. Patrick Boyd had been landed by the Maid of the North. In the gathering gloom this prospect, with the towering forest that lay behind, was impressive–and solemn. And the solemnity of the scene was intensified by the primeval solitude,–the absence of all sign of human life.

Both travellers were silent, thoughtful, and very tired. It had been a long day, and then the misunderstanding in the middle of it had told considerably upon the nerves of both. To Pats the most exhausting experience of all had been the business of the baggage,–its transportation from the beach below to the house above. Elinor’s trunk, being far too heavy for their own four hands, Pats had suggested carrying the trays up separately; and this was done. Certain things from his own trunk he had lugged off into the woods, where, as he said:

“There’s a little outbuilding that will do for me. Not a royal museum like this of yours, but good accommodations for a bachelor.”

She did not inquire as to particulars. The gentleman’s bed-chamber was not a subject on which she cared to encourage confidences.

Her fatigue had merely created a wholesome desire for rest,–the sleepiness and indifference that come from weary muscles. But Pats’s exhaustion was of a different sort. All the strength of his body had departed. Every muscle, cord, and sinew was unstrung. His spine seemed on the point of folding up. A hollow, nervous feeling had settled in the back of his head, and being something new it caused him a mild uneasiness. Moreover, his hands and feet were cold. Dispiriting chills travelled up and down his back at intervals. This might be owing to the change in temperature, as a storm was evidently brewing.

The wind from the northwest had grown several degrees colder since the sun went down, and the heavens were sombre. There was not a star in sight. A yearning to close his eyes and go to sleep came over him, but he remembered how offensive was his presence to this lady, even at his best behavior. He must take no liberties; so he remarked, cheerfully, in a tone indicative of suppressed exuberance of spirit:

“I hope you will not feel nervous in your château to-night.”

“No, I think not. It is a weird place to sleep in, however.”

“Yes, it is. Wouldn’t you like me to sleep just outside, near the door? I am used to camping out, you know.”

“No, I thank you. I shall get along very well, I have no doubt.”

After that a prolonged silence. At last the lady arose.

“I think I shall go in, Mr. Boyd. I find I am very tired.”

While they were groping about the cottage for a lamp, Elinor remembered two candelabra that stood upon a cabinet, stately works of art in bronze and gilt, very heavy, with five candles to each. One of them was taken down.

“Don’t light them all,” said Elinor. “We must not be extravagant.”

But Pats did light them all, saying: “This is a special occasion, and you are the guest of honor.”

The guest of honor looked around this ever-surprising interior and experienced a peculiar sense of fear. She kept it to herself, however; but as her eyes moved swiftly from the life-sized figures in the tapestry to the sharply defined busts, and then to the canvas faces, the whole room seemed alive with people.

“Plenty of company here,” said Pats, reading her expression. “But in your chamber, there, you will have fewer companions, only the host and his wife.” Then, with a smile, “Excuse my suggesting it, if an impertinence, but if you would like to have me take a look under that monumental bed I shall be most happy to do it.”

She hesitated, yet she knew she would do it herself, after he had gone. While she was hesitating, Pats drew aside the tapestry and passed with the candelabrum into the chamber. He made a careful survey of the territory beneath the bed and reported it free of robbers. Solomon, also, was investigating; and Pats, who was doing this solely for Elinor’s peace of mind, knew well that if a human being were anywhere about the dog would long ago have announced him. But they made a tour of the room, looking behind and under the larger objects, lifting the lids of the marriage chests and opening the doors of the cupboard. Into the cellar, too, they descended, and made a careful search. The five candles produced a weird effect in their promenade along this subterraneous apartment, lighting up an astonishing medley of furniture, garden implements, empty bottles, the posts and side pieces of an extra bed, a broken statue, another wheelbarrow, a lot of kindling wood, and the empty corner where the coffin had awaited its mission. There seemed to be everything except the man they were looking for.

“Fearfully cold down here!” Pats’s teeth chattered as he spoke, and he shivered from crown to heel.

“Cold! It doesn’t seem so to me,” and her tone suggested a somewhat contemptuous surprise.

“To me it is like the chill of death.” The candles shook in his hand as he spoke.

“Perhaps you have taken cold,” and with stately indifference she moved on toward the stairs.

“Proximity of a Boston iceberg more likely.” But this was not spoken aloud.

Upstairs, when about to take his departure, Pats was still shivering. As he stood for a moment before the embers in the big open fireplace at the end of the cottage, his eyes rested upon a chest near by, with a rug and a cushion on the top, evidently used as a lounge by the owner. After hesitating a moment, he asked:

“Would you object to my occupying the top of that chest, just for to-night?”

As she turned toward him he detected a straightening of the figure and the now familiar loftiness of manner which he knew to be unfailing signs of anger–or contempt. Possibly both.

“Certainly not. If you have a cold, it is better you should remain near the fire. I have no objections to sleeping in that other house. You say there is another house.”

“Oh, yes! There is another house,” he hastened to explain. “And it’s plenty good enough. Of course I shall go there. I beg your pardon for suggesting anything else. I forgot my resolve. I didn’t realize what I was doing.”

“I prefer going there myself,” she said, rapidly. “I much prefer it.”

And she turned toward the chamber to make arrangements for departure. But Pats stepped forward and said, decisively, and in a tone that surprised her:

“You stay here. I go to the other house myself.”

He took his hat, and with Solomon at his heels strode rapidly to the door. There he stopped, and with his hand on the latch said, more gently, in his usual manner:

“Wouldn’t you like Solomon to stay here with you? He is lots of company, and a protector.”

She made no reply, but looked with glacial indifference from the man to his dog.

“You would feel less lonesome, I know.” Patting Solomon on the head and pointing to the haughty figure, “You stay here, old man. That’s all right. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The dog clearly preferred going with his master, but Pats, with a pleasant good-night to the lady, stepped out into the darkness and closed the door behind him.

Solomon, with his nose to the door, stood for several moments in silent protest against this desertion. Later, however, he followed Elinor into the bed-chamber, and although his presence gave her courage and was distinctly a solace, she remained vaguely apprehensive and too ill at ease to undress and go to bed; so, instead, she lay on the outside of it, in a wrapper.

Without, the northeast wind had become a gale. The howling of the storm, together with the ghostly silence of the many-peopled room excited her imagination and quickened her fears.

But weariness and perfect physical relaxation overcame exhausted nerves, and at last the lady slept.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: The Pines of Lory/Chapter 7


text:
The Pines of Lory/Chapter 8

O sound was Elinor Marshall’s sleep that when she awoke the old clock behind the door was celebrating, with its usual music, the hour of nine. From the fury of the rain upon the roof and the sheets of water coursing down the little panes of the window in her chamber, it seemed as if a deluge had arrived. And upon opening the front door she stepped hastily back to avoid the water from the roof and the spattering from the doorstep. But Solomon was not afraid. He darted out into the rain and disappeared among the pines.

“Mr. Boyd will surely get a soaking when he comes for his breakfast,” she thought. And she wondered, casually, if he had a waterproof or an umbrella. He would soon appear, probably, and, as men were always hungry, she turned her attention to hunting up food and coffee for a breakfast. These were easily found. Having started a fire and set the table for two, she got the coffee under way. Crackers, boiled eggs, sardines, marmalade, cold ham, and apples were to appear at this repast.

But at ten o’clock Mr. Boyd had not appeared. At half-past ten she realized the folly of waiting indefinitely for a man who preferred his bed to his breakfast, and she sat down alone. In the midst of her meal, however, she heard Solomon scratching at the door. No sooner had he entered–dripping with rain–than he began the same pantomime of entreaty as that of yesterday when he tried to get somebody to follow him. Now, perhaps his master was in trouble.

But Elinor remembered what Mr. Boyd himself had said, “He has probably found a woodchuck or a squirrel track.”

Looking out into the driving rain she decided to take the benefit of the doubt. But Solomon was persistent; so aggressively persistent that in the end he became convincing. At last she put on her waterproof and plunged forth into the tempest, the overjoyed dog capering wildly in front. Straight into the woods he led her.

Only a short distance had they travelled among the pines when she stopped, with a new fear, at the sound of voices. Two men, she thought, were quarrelling. Then a moment later, she heard the fragment of a song. After listening more attentively she decided that the voice of Mr. Boyd was the only one she heard. But was he intoxicated? All she caught was a senseless, almost incoherent flow of language, with laughable attempts at singing. At this, Elinor was on the point of turning back, prompted both by terror and disgust, when Solomon, with increasing vehemence, renewed his exhortations. She yielded, and a few steps farther the sight of Pats lying upon the ground at the foot of a gigantic pine, his valise beside him, its contents, now soaked with rain and scattered about, brought a twinge of remorse.

So he had done this rather than oppose her ideas of propriety! And yesterday, when he spoke of another house, she, in her heart, had not believed him.

All scruples regarding intoxication were dismissed. She hastened forward and knelt beside him. Pats, with feverish face, lay on his back in wild delirium. The pine-needles that formed his bed were soggy with rain, and his clothing was soaked. She laid her hand against his face and found it hot. His eyes met hers with no sign of recognition.

“That’s all right,” he muttered, rolling his head from side to side, “nobody denies it. Run your own business; but I want my clothes. Damn it, I’m freezing!”

His teeth chattered and he shook his fist in an invisible face. Involuntarily, from a sense of helplessness, she looked vaguely about as if seeking aid.

Here, in the woods, was protection from the wind, but the branches aloft were moving and tossing from the fury of the gale above. The usual murmuring of the pines had become a roar. Great drops of rain, shaken from this surging vault, fell in fitful but copious showers. This constant roar,–not unlike the ocean in a gale,–the sombre light, the helpless and perhaps dying man before her, the chill and mortal dampness of all and everything around, for an instant congealed her courage and took away her strength. But this she fought against. All her powers of persuasion, and all her strength, she employed to get him on his feet. Pats, although wild in speech and reckless in gesture, was docile and willing to obey. The weakness of his own legs, however, threatened to bring his rescuer and himself to the ground. And, all the time, a constant flow of crazy speech and foolish, feeble song.

Half-way to the cottage he stopped, wrenched his arm from her grasp and demanded, with a frown: “I say; you expect decent things of a woman, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.” And she nodded assent, trying to lead him on again. But he pushed her away and would have fallen with the effort had she not caught him in time.

“Well, there’s this about it,” he continued, trying feebly to shake his arm from her hands yet staggering along where she led, “I’m not stuck on that woman or any other. I’m not in that line of business. Do I look like a one-eyed ass?”

“No, no, not at all!” And, gently, she urged him forward.

“Because three or four fools are gone over her, she thinks everybody else–oh! who cares, anyway? Let her think!”

It was a zigzag journey. He reeled and plunged, dragging her in all directions; and so yielding were his knees that she doubted if they could bear him to the house. Once, when seemingly on the point of a collapse, he muttered, in a confidential tone: “This hauling guns under a frying sun does give you a thirst, hey? Say, am I right, or not?”

“Yes, yes, you are right. Come along: just a little farther.”

“Did you ever swim in champagne with your mouth open?”

“No.”

“What a fool!”

Then he stopped, straightened up and sang, in a die-away, broken voice, with chattering teeth:

Grasping her roughly by the shoulder, he exclaimed: “Why don’t you join in the chorus, you blithering idiot?”

This song, in fragments and with variations, he sang–or rather tried to sing–repeatedly. At the edge of the woods he seemed to shrink from the fury of the storm which drove, in cutting blasts, against their faces. And on the threshold of the cottage he again held back. In the doorway, leaning against the jamb, he said, solemnly:

“Look here, young feller, just mark my words, women are devils. The less you have to do with them the better for you. D–n the whole tribe! That’s what I say!”

But she dragged him in and supported him to a chair before the fire. He sat shivering with cold, his chin upon his breast, apparently exhausted by the walk. The water dripping from his saturated garments formed puddles on the floor.

Elinor, for a moment, stood regarding him in heart-stricken silence. Once more she felt of his clothes, then, after an inward struggle, she made a resolve. As she did it the color came into her cheeks.

title: The Pines of Lory/Chapter 8


text:
The Red Book Magazine/Volume 6/Number 4/Nanette Maneuvers

“Do you love me?” snapped Nanette.

“You know I do,” said Mr. Thompson, sulkily.

“I know that you love yourself; I did not know that your heart was big enough to embrace us both!”

“If I loved myself I would marry you at once.”

“No, you wouldn't. If you loved me you would not care if people said that you were marrying for money.”

“No one who had ever seen you would ever say that.”

“If you could only hold that pace I would soon be dragged to the altar—”

“Don't be common, Nanette.”

“There's the reaction! What would you like to have me do? Give away my money until our fortunes are equal; in other words, give it all away?”

“Be reasonable, Nanette; or, if that is impossible, let me be reasonable.” There was a look of weariness upon his handsome face. “You have your inherited millions; I have nothing. You have also your inherited extravagances and love of luxury. You could never come down to my uncertain income, so I would have to go up to yours; become a dependency. Wouldn't you be proud of a husband like that?”

“I should always be proud of you, Morris!” Nanette was touched, and when she was touched it was the custom for her violet eyes to fill and often over flow; then her prettiness shone through the pique as the sun burns through thin ice. There were many frosts in Nanette's darker moments, but there was always the warm sun behind the clouds.

“Don't mind if I am cross, Morris; I have to either love or hate, and when I don't love you I think I hate you like the devil!”

“Nanette!”

“I do; when you look troubled, though, I love you, no matter how nasty you've been. You are proud and selfish and inconsiderate, but I think that you would sacrifice yourself almost as soon as you would sacrifice me—”

“You mean—”

“No, I don't; I mean what I say. You lie in the dust and allow yourself to be trampled by the thousand-legged dragon, Public Opinion. But you are high-minded and honest and brave and big and handsome, and know it, and I love you and want you to marry me in a very great hurry; be engaged, anyway. I'm tired of being a maverick.”

Mr. Thompson's aristocratic face assumed the set expression of a family portrait; the “death rather than dancing” expression of his Puritan ancestors. Negation was written in the thinly compressed lips.

“Never?” demanded Nanette.

“Not until my salary is adequately lucrative—”

“Don't choke yourself, Morris. Shall I thump you on the back? Why don't you say 'never' and be done with it! Did you ever sell a house? The Lord made you to buy real estate, Morris, not to sell it—there, I didn't mean to hurt you, old boy! You have my permission to kiss me—for a punishment!”

Nanette held up her piquant face like a pansy to the sun. If the face had been merely childish, the sun might have kissed it, or something might have kissed it, but there was too much of temperament lurking in the subtle lines of mouth and eyes to warrant a kiss of peace. Mr. Thompson hesitated, wavered, looked high-minded and conscientious, and the petals shut with a snap.

“I did you an injustice!” said Nanette. “Some day you will be very rich; you are so careful! Of course, you will have to live a good while—”

“Nanette!”

“Miss Latour, if you please.” The ice had skimmed the violet eyes again. “If you think that I am going to wait until the frosts of a wintry old age silver my auburn hair and walk hand in hand with you down the toboggan slide of life, you are very much mistaken! You do not fully understand my wishes. I want you, I will admit, but I also want to be married. I'm tired of being cursed with single blessedness.”

“Nanette!”

“Good afternoon!”

The door of the real estate office of Morris Thompson and a fictitious company slammed with a crash which threatened the ground-glass; the front door opened swiftly to the imperious wave of a small, neatly-gloved hand. “Home!” snapped Miss Latour to her chauffeur, and the next moment the pansy face was crushed against the cushions of the automobile and staccato sobs mingled with the grind of the machinery.

Three city squares were Nanette's outside limits for tears; the last few stragglers were winked out impatiently, for Nanette had received an inspiration, and when the busy little brain was active there was no room for futile tears. She leaned forward and gave the chauffeur an address; the lumbering machine slowed, cut a wide circle, then forged ahead with protesting groans.

Nanette glanced in the mirror, dried her eyes carefully, as one would blot a letter, ran deft fingers through her hair, straightened her hat, produced a superfluous reticule from which she extracted sundry strange accessories to her peace of mind, if not her beauty. She took the “shine” from her cheeks; something was whisked across her already carmine lips; all that she needed was a bird-bath to flirt a few drops upon her feathers; the process was the same, yet some would have regarded her actions as immoral!

The big red automobile drew up beneath the marquise of an apartment hotel, a so-called “bachelor apartments,” because bachelors are supposed to be able to afford higher rent rates. Nanette sent in her card.

“If Mr. Stirling is in ask him to come to the carriage,” said she. Mr. Stirling was in and obeyed the summons promptly.

“Hello, Nan.” His voice was deep with a lilt of mockery; he was mostly mockery. His build seemed unnecessarily powerful, his intellectual face wore inconsistent lines of dissipation, sensual but not weak; the lines seemed due rather to strong senses than feeble will, and his eyes wore the look of one to whom nothing mattered.

“Get in,” said Nanette.

“Why?”

“Get in; I'm not going to kidnap you.”

“Then what's the use of getting in?” Nevertheless he got in.

“Where do you want to go?” she asked.

“Anywhere—with you. Loose your lightning; let her roll!”

“Where were you going?”

“To the club—after a few of the —but never mind, my heart is sufficiently stimulated.”

“Can you really get along without? Shall I stop at a drug store—”

“I can get along with nothing else as long as I am with you,” he answered, with a sort of mocking earnestness.

“Because I want to talk with you. Jim, you are the only man friend that I have.”

“The rest are all suitors?”

“Yes, or else don't like me.”

“By which I take it they are ex-suitors. Proceed. We are listening.”

“Jim, I am, as you know, very much in love with Morris Thompson.”

“You are, as I feared, very much in love with Morris Thompson. I am very sorry; he is an ass!”

“But he absolutely refuses to marry me.”

“I beg his pardon; he is an imbecile.”

“Nevertheless, I am in love with him.”

“It is often contagious. What are his scruples; afraid that people will say he is a fortune-hunter?”

“How did you know that?”

“I didn't; I know Morris Thompson. I would like to give people a chance to say that I married for money.”

“You have had several opportunities.”

“I did not need the money then.”

“Do you need it now?”

“Like the mischief.”

“Will you borrow?”

“Like a shot.”

“Very well. Will five hundred help?” Nanette signalled for a stop and extracted from her wrist-bag a check-book and a gold fountain pen.

“It will more than help; it will rescue—but, look here, Nan—”

“Be still, Jim. We have known each other from childhood, have we not? We have not seen much of each other lately because I've been painting in Paris and you've been painting in New York.” Nanette began to write the check. An expression which was a stranger, which the features did not know how to entertain, crept into Mr. Stirling's hard face.

“Oh, look here, Nan—”

“Kindly be still! What difference does it make to me? And, who knows, it might keep the sheriff away from the door. Be careful, it's still wet!”

“Thanks.” She caught a glimpse of a strange face as he turned away for a moment. The check fluttered, held by one corner.

“This is an aside. It has nothing to do with my errand, Jim. I came to you because, as I say, you are the only man friend I can think of. I give you that insignificant check for the same reason. Friendship gives one the right to give as well as ask, does it not?”

“Perhaps so. Can't say. Never had any experience.”

“Then it's time you had; I'm going to ask advice and probably a favor.

“Won't warrant the advice, but you can count on the favor, if it's anything good for you.”

“Morris flatly refuses to marry me. He says that he loves me, whereas I know that he hates you as only—”

“A Puritan can hate a cavalier. He has the advantage of me; it never occurred to me to hate him.”

“Don't be insulting, Jim; remember that I am in love with him.”

“There seem always to be compensations for the congenital chump.”

“He considers you worthless and vicious—”

“Glimmerings of intelligence—”

“And generally detests you. He describes you as 'one of those unprincipled profligates who menace our social system.'”

“Gad, how he must love to roll that out! He's in the wrong business, Nan. He ought to be offering heavenly estates instead of those on Long Island Sound.'”

“Please don't interrupt. Some of his views are narrow, Jim, I admit, but he is really a splendid fellow. Everyone admits that. He was voted the most popular man in his class at college.”

“No wonder he can't earn a living—”

“And he is a magnificent athlete, and so good-looking.”

“Just created to be supported!”

“He should have been rich—”

“Here's his opportunity. Fortune, after all, is only a matter of judging the ripeness of the moment, just as one thumbs a melon.”

“I intend that he shall embrace—eh—seize it, and I want you to help me.”

“I'll do it, even at the price of helping him.” A grimness settled on the hard face of Mr. Stirling and he stared moodily at the people they were passing. “I don't suppose it really makes any difference whether you're in love with him or not,” he observed, as one communing with himself. “You think that you are and won't be happy till you get him. Then you'll probably be sorry, like a puppy chasing a toad.”

“You are a rough brute, Jim.”

“What do you want me to do; threaten to marry you myself?” There was again the note of flippant earnestness in the mocking voice of Mr. Stirling.

“Yes. Announce our engagement.”

“Eh! What!” The mockery was swept aside; he glared at her as if about to shake her.

“Yes, Jim,” she answered. There was a flutter in her voice; her mind grew suddenly confused. Something in the masculine roughness of his tone shocked her femininity; she dropped her cloak of cool assurance and felt unclothed, embarrassed, puzzled, and wound up in helpless silence.

“Didn't mean to scare you, Nan.” She marvelled at the unexpected note of gentleness, “but you don't really mean it.”

“But I do, Jim,” she pleaded. “That is, of course, if you don't mind.”

His short laugh brought the blood to her cheeks and the tenderness of his voice kept it there. She had never thought to find any tenderness in him.

“What a baby you are, Nan.” The color deepened. Morris never called her a baby. It was cheeky of Jim, especially when she had just given him a check for five hundred dollars, and yet it was rather nice, too!

“A mere kid—ought to have a nurse. Fancy your being engaged to me!” The contempt in his voice at the mention of himself brought the ever-ready tears of pity to her eyes. “Clever, though. Morris would immediately proceed to convolvulate; have epileptiform convolvulations, like a duck that's swallowed a live locust! Then, when his agony had reached the supreme limits of lachrymose self-sacrifice, he would come forward, a weeping martyr to his love, and say: 'Enough! Dismiss this rounder! Rather than see you lose your soul I myself will'—”

“Don't! Oh, don't!” Nanette pressed both hands to her eyes as if to shut out what she knew to be a faithful delineation. “You make him appear such—”

“An ass? You flatter me. He does it himself, don't you think?”

“You are too caustic, Jim,” she protested. Protesting was new to Nanette; insistence was her usual method. “Everyone admits that Morris has a fine mind—”

“Even Morris himself. That's just the trouble; it's so fine that he can't bear to give any of it away.”

Nanette was irresolute, again assailed by her new uncertainty. She felt childishly inadequate to defend the absent favored one. Everyone said that Morris was a fine fellow, just as everyone said that Jim was a good-for-nothing, or worse things. Morris was supposedly brilliant—at everything but the sale of real estate, yet Nanette could never remember Morris having bundled up her ideas and crammed them back into the closet as Jim was doing. She resented it, and this helped her a little.

“Morris is a man of high ideals, Jim, and he feels as he does more on my account than his own. He wants my husband to command the respect of society; he thinks that we should wait; but who is going to give me back these years?” Her voice was tremulous.

The mockery in the stony eyes of Mr. Stirling vanished. His hard face softened.

“Forgive me, Nan. I used to have high ideals myself, but there's only one of them left, and that's the reason—I say, Nan, do you think that you really love him?” He looked at her curiously.

“I—I think that I must, Jim. I was never in love before, so, of course, I can't be—be absolutely sure, but I think that I must, to go to so much trouble. Don't you, Jim?”

“I think that you will be as long as he's at large. When you get him penned and have a chance for a good close look at him, perhaps you'll think differently. Your scheme's not a bad one, barring the material involved; not half bad, for a woman to dope out. When it's known that you're engaged to me there'll be an awful howl, and if Morris has got the sense that goes with his style of beauty he'll see his chance to dash in and snatch you from the shipwreck of your happiness amidst the plaudits of the society of which he stands so much in awe. You see, people will then say: 'Poor fellow, he never would have married her except to rescue her.'”

“What a perfectly beastly way you have of looking at things.”

“True, isn't it?”

“That's what makes it so beastly.”

“Not my fault. I'll shut up. You go ahead, Nan, and tell me what you want done. It's going to strain your respectability a bit to be engaged to a gentleman of my supposed gaieties, but since you're going to chuck me in the end you'll rise like a salamander from the flames; no, I'm the salamander; you'll be a phoenix, only—” He tore the check slowly into small pieces and let them filter through his fingers into the mire of the street.

“What are you doing?”

“Don't forget to cross off the stub. You see, it's hardly a salaried job.” The early irony had found its way back into the reckless voice. “It's rather a—eh—labor of love.”

“It's nothing of the sort! It's merely a friendly act, Just like my giving you the check.”

“Either would be all right, alone, but they don't go well together; like a crab-salad and ice-cream.”

“Oh, very well. If you are going to be foolish we will call the whole thing off. I'm not going to accept a favor of a man who won't permit me to do him one. I never would have accused you of sentiment, Jim, but never mind. Have you any other bad character you can think of whom I might secure in your place— There! I know of just the man!”

“Who?”

“Never mind

“Don't do that. I'll see it through.”

“And take the check?”

“No. Hang the check!”

“I suppose you know your own affairs,” said Nanette, weakly. Like most women who have never known want, she could not conceive of money being a very real necessity. An inconvenience to be without, and she had offered the check as she might have offered a surplus umbrella. If he really did not want it he could not be much inconvenienced.

“When do you want to throw your bomb?” asked Mr. Stirling.

“In about a week; we must be seen about together first. Have you anything for to-night?”

“No.”

“Then you may take Auntie and me to the play. I'll get the tickets now. Afterwards we will go to supper. Can you meet me at the Humphrey's tea to-morrow afternoon?”

“I'm not allowed there.”

“As bad as that? You will be in a fortnight.”

“Good! I'll walk in behind you and grin like a dog brought into the parlor by his master.”

“Then you must come to see me very often.”

“The butler will find me wagging my tail on the doormat every time he sweeps the steps.”

“He doesn't sweep the steps. As soon as our engagement is announced we'll be invited together to dinners.”

“Good. I won't need the check after all.”

“I wish you'd take it, anyway. Will you?”

“No.”

“I'm going to the dressmaker's now. Where are you going?”

“Set me down here.”

“What do you suppose they are saying?” asked Nanette a fortnight later as she and Mr. Stirling passed the windows of his club.

“I don't suppose; I know. Not that it's any intellectual feat to tell what men in a club window are talking about.”

“What are they talking about?”

“'There goes Nanette Latour; stunning girl. Wonder how long it'll take her to get enough of Jim Stirling.' That's what they're saying.”

“They haven't much confidence in you, Jim.”

“Never attempted to inspire it. Only decent trait I've got.”

“You inspire it in me without trying.”

“Then I've got two.”

Nanette stole a sidelong glance at his face; it was fuller than it had been two weeks before and there was a color on the high cheeks which had then been lacking, It was a rugged face; strong rather than handsome and should have belonged to a sailor or a soldier.

“Being fiancé agrees with you, Jim,” said Nanette, brightly. “You look better than you did two weeks ago.” She studied him more attentively and was struck by the clearness of his complexion.

“Have you stopped drinking?” she asked abruptly.

“What do you want to know for?”

“Never mind. Have you?”

“Yes.”

“When did you stop?”

“Two weeks ago. You didn't suppose that I was going to be about you reeking of cocktails, did you?”

“I didn't think of it. I knew that you would do nothing that you shouldn't when you were with me, Jim. Was it hard to stop?”

“Rather, at first.”

“What did you do it for?”

“Wrote a play.”

“A play! Not really, Jim! A real live play?”

“I thought it was fairly dead, but Dick Claverham likes it.”

“Claverham, the actor? Do you know him?”

“Known him for a good while. He read it last night; said he'd put it on. Wants me to do another.”

“Oh Jim! I'm—I'm so glad, I'm so grateful.”

“All your doing. I'm the one to be glad and grateful.”

“When—when are you going to drink again, Jim?”

“Hadn't thought. At your wedding, probably, if I get a bid to it.”

Nanette glanced quickly away and at the lofty spires of the cathedral as they rose a frosted white against the perfect blue of the winter sky. The spires grew blurred, quivered, began to totter as if an earthquake was rocking their bases.

“My house shall always be open to you, Jim, no matter what you do or what you are.”

“Thanks. How about Thompson?”

“I said my house. But I am so excited about the play, Jim. When am I to see it? What is it; what kind of a play?”

“Comedy; I was feeling too beastly to write anything else. When I showed it to Claverham he read it through with a glum face; never so far flattered it as to grin from start to finish, The more he read the sadder he got until I wanted to kick him. If it had been tragedy I'd have burst with pride. When he finished he stared at the fire in a melancholy way.

“The brute!”

“No, it was because he liked it and it presented a business possibility, that was all.”

Nanette skipped like a child of six. “I knew that you had it in you to do something clever, Jim. And to think that I should have been the one to have brought it out!” They reached the house. “Do come in and tell me all about it,” begged Nanette.

“I'd like to, little girl, but I can't. Got an engagement with Claverham; he wants certain parts shifted on account of the expense of staging. I'll bring it up in a day or two and bore you a bit. Good-bye.”

Nanette dashed up the steps, her face aglow, her eyes sparkling. Before she had pressed the bell the door was swung open by Mr. Thompson, outward bound, top-coated, hatted, gloved, and caned. He stopped in time to prevent a collision, glanced at Nanette, then at the departing figure of Mr. Stirling.

“I—eh—am—” he paused discreetly.

“I wish to have a talk with you, Nanette,” he remarked austerely.

“I am not sure that Miss Latour is in,” replied Nanette. “Perhaps it would be well to ring and ask.”

“Please don't be frivolous; my errand is quite important—to me, at least, and I hope it will prove so to you.”

Nanette reflected swiftly that she had known exactly what those last words were to be and just exactly the tone in which they were to be uttered. She did not feel in the mood for quarreling; she wished to be alone and put her mind in order, and if there was any time left, to think of Jim and his play. She felt that at the moment she was hardly meet for fight and disliked the idea of not doing herself justice.

“Can't you call tomorrow? I'm tired.”

“You are looking bad, Nanette,” observed Mr. Thompson. Nanette was, just for the moment. He would not have thought so if he had seen her face as she dashed up the steps.

“I never felt better in my life. Oh, all right, come in if you want to.” She reflected wisely that one sleeps better on wounds than upon nervous expectation. They entered the little palm room at the rear of the house, Nanette leading, sprightly but nervous, Mr. Thompson following, erect, uncompromising, with the facial expression of one of his Puritan ancestors; reeking with the smug anticipation of an unpleasant duty; an, expression first invented to attend the burning of a witch.

“You are almost a stranger, Morris.” Nanette's voice was a trifle tremulous.

“It is your own fault, Nanette.”

“Oh, I wasn't complaining; I was merely stating a fact.” Resentment was to Nanette a shield and buckler.

“Nanette, what is this ridiculous story I hear of your engagement to that—to this man Stirling?”

“I don't know what you've heard, but I'm engaged to Mr. James Stirling.”

“But I thought that you were in love with—with me!”

“Did you?”

“You certainly gave me every reason to believe so. Tell me honestly, Nanette, have you done this through pique? I have been thinking a great deal about what you said when I saw you last and have about decided that you were right, dear. It is selfish of me to let my pride stand in the way of our happiness—”

“I do not quite understand. Do you realize that you are talking to an engaged girl?” Nanette could play grande dame at times, and this was one of them.

“But, Nanette, you surely have no serious intention of marrying this dissipated, dissolute—”

“Must I remind you again that you are speaking of my fiancé?”

“But you do not know him as—”

“He is one of my oldest friends.”

“His behavior has quite forfeited his right to—”

“His behavior since he has been engaged to me has more than compensated for that, Morris. Now, please don't say anything—”

“Then he has imposed upon your simplicity, Nanette.” Mr. Thompson's righteous anger was brewing into one of the pale rages which start slowly, like an easterly gale beneath a thickening sky, and then last a week, leaving a trail of wreckage in their wakes. “The man is unprincipled, a snake-in-the-grass, a—”

But at this point the gale was deflected by a local cyclone. Nanette sprang to her feet, cheeks crimson, violet eyes lurid.

“You cad! I wish that you would say that to his face! You coward! I despise you! I hate you! I never want to set eyes on your face again! Go away! Go out of the house! quickly, before I throw something at you—” She threw herself face downward on the divan and the deluge relieved the atmospheric pressure.

At the end of at least two minutes of wild and frantic weeping she raised her head tentatively and found that she was quite alone. She looked about her, considered what she had said, nodded, smiled, approved her words. Then she dried her eyes deftly and rising swiftly rushed to the next room, there to beat the piano into utter insensibility.

“Here's the play, Nan,” said Mr. Stirling, in the voice of a schoolboy and with an expression to match. He felt suddenly juvenile.

“Oh Jim! I'm so glad! Let's take it into the den and read it at once.”

“Will you read it or shall I?”

“You read it. Sit here on the divan so that I may look over your shoulder, if I like.”

“Don't read ahead; it spoils the dramatic effect.” Mr. Stirling began to shove the cushions out of the way. “Hello! Who spoiled this little pink silk chap? Someone's poured a bucket of water over him.”

“My fault,” said Nanette, contritely. Mr. Stirling regarded her keenly from beneath his heavy eyebrows.

“Tears?”

Nanette nodded. “Morris was here yesterday; he asked me to marry him.” She dropped her violet eyes; not so far however, that she failed to catch the death grimace in the happiness of the face beside her.

“Did, eh? Not very wild, is he? Lies to a dog like a woodcock. Congratulations, little girl. Hope you will be radiantly happy. Here, give me the old play and tell me all about your plans.”

Nanette clutched the manuscript tightly.

“I suppose I'm out of office?” The hard old ring had found its way back into Mr. Stirling's voice.

“Not until you answer a question, Jim. Will you?”

“If I know the answer.”

“Then—are you in love with me yourself?”

All of its newly-found color left the face of Mr. Stirling. However, he was accustomed to the keen-edged thrusts of Fate. He laughed shortly.

“What a greedy little kid you are; must everybody love you?”

“You said you would answer my question.”

“I lied. I won't answer it.”

“Why not? Don't you know the answer?”

“Oh, yes. I know the answer, but, you see, you are the fiancée of some one else.”

Nanette reflected swiftly that Morris had not considered this insignificant detail. Then she glanced at the man at her side; her eyes filled and a new tenderness enveloped her in a warm wave.

“You may kiss me if you like, Jim,” she whispered.

“But Nan!”

“I said that you might kiss me; do you hear, kiss me! I am not engaged to Morris. I am still engaged to you, you big silly!” Her voice grew plaintive. “It's funny what a hard time I have to get any one to kiss me.”

But the subsequent remarks of Nanette were too muffled to be audible.


text: Talk:The Red Book Magazine/Volume 6/Number 4/Nanette Maneuvers