diff options
Diffstat (limited to '4645-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 4645-0.txt | 13332 |
1 files changed, 13332 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/4645-0.txt b/4645-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e1a8dd9 --- /dev/null +++ b/4645-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13332 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Landlord at Lion's Head, Complete +by William Dean Howells + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Landlord at Lion's Head, Complete + +Author: William Dean Howells + +Release Date: August 21, 2016 [EBook #4645] +Last Updated: February 25, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LANDLORD AT LION'S HEAD, *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +THE LANDLORD AT LION'S HEAD + +By William Dean Howells + + + + +Part I. + + +BIBLIOGRAPHICAL + +In those dim recesses of the consciousness where things have their +beginning, if ever things have a beginning, I suppose the origin of this +novel may be traced to a fact of a fortnight's sojourn on the western +shore of lake Champlain in the summer of 1891. Across the water in the +State of Vermont I had constantly before my eyes a majestic mountain +form which the earlier French pioneers had named “Le Lion Couchant,” + but which their plainer-minded Yankee successors preferred to call +“The Camel's Hump.” It really looked like a sleeping lion; the head was +especially definite; and when, in the course of some ten years, I found +the scheme for a story about a summer hotel which I had long meant to +write, this image suggested the name of 'The Landlord at Lion's Head.' I +gave the title to my unwritten novel at once and never wished to change +it, but rejoiced in the certainty that, whatever the novel turned out to +be, the title could not be better. + +I began to write the story four years later, when we were settled for +the winter in our flat on Central Park, and as I was a year in doing it, +with other things, I must have taken the unfinished manuscript to and +from Magnolia, Massachusetts, and Long Beach, Long Island, where I spent +the following summer. It was first serialized in Harper's Weekly and in +the London Illustrated News, as well as in an Australian newspaper--I +forget which one; and it was published as a completed book in 1896. + +I remember concerning it a very becoming despair when, at a certain +moment in it, I began to wonder what I was driving at. I have always had +such moments in my work, and if I cannot fitly boast of them, I can at +least own to them in freedom from the pride that goes before a fall. My +only resource at such times was to keep working; keep beating harder +and harder at the wall which seemed to close me in, till at last I broke +through into the daylight beyond. In this case, I had really such a very +good grip of my characters that I need not have had the usual fear of +their failure to work out their destiny. But even when the thing was +done and I carried the completed manuscript to my dear old friend, the +late Henry Loomis Nelson, then editor of the Weekly, it was in more +fear of his judgment than I cared to show. As often happened with my +manuscript in such exigencies, it seemed to go all to a handful of +shrivelled leaves. When we met again and he accepted it for the Weekly, +with a handclasp of hearty welcome, I could scarcely gasp out my +unfeigned relief. We had talked the scheme of it over together; he had +liked the notion, and he easily made me believe, after my first dismay, +that he liked the result even better. + +I myself liked the hero of the tale more than I have liked worthier +men, perhaps because I thought I had achieved in him a true rustic +New England type in contact with urban life under entirely modern +conditions. What seemed to me my esthetic success in him possibly +softened me to his ethical shortcomings; but I do not expect others to +share my weakness for Jeff Durgin, whose strong, rough surname had been +waiting for his personality ever since I had got it off the side of an +ice-cart many years before. + +At the time the story was imagined Harvard had been for four years much +in the direct knowledge of the author, and I pleased myself in realizing +the hero's experience there from even more intimacy with the university +moods and manners than had supported me in the studies of an earlier +fiction dealing with them. I had not lived twelve years in Cambridge +without acquaintance such as even an elder man must make with the +undergraduate life; but it is only from its own level that this can +be truly learned, and I have always been ready to stand corrected by +undergraduate experience. Still, I have my belief that as a jay--the +word may now be obsolete--Jeff Durgin is not altogether out of drawing; +though this is, of course, the phase of his character which is one of +the least important. What I most prize in him, if I may go to the bottom +of the inkhorn, is the realization of that anti-Puritan quality which +was always vexing the heart of Puritanism, and which I had constantly +felt one of the most interesting facts in my observation of New England. + +As for the sort of summer hotel portrayed in these pages, it was +materialized from an acquaintance with summer hotels extending over +quarter of a century, and scarcely to be surpassed if paralleled. I had +a passion for knowing about them and understanding their operation which +I indulged at every opportunity, and which I remember was satisfied as +to every reasonable detail at one of the pleasantest seaside hostelries +by one of the most intelligent and obliging of landlords. Yet, hotels +for hotels, I was interested in those of the hills rather than those of +the shores. + +I worked steadily if not rapidly at the story. Often I went back over +it, and tore it to pieces and put it together again. It made me feel at +times as if I should never learn my trade, but so did every novel I have +written; every novel, in fact, has been a new trade. In, the case of +this one the publishers were hurrying me in the revision for copy to +give the illustrator, who was hurrying his pictures for the English and +Australian serializations. + +KITTERY POINT, MAINE, July, 1909. + + + + +THE LANDLORD AT LION'S HEAD + + + + +I. + +If you looked at the mountain from the west, the line of the summit was +wandering and uncertain, like that of most mountain-tops; but, seen from +the east, the mass of granite showing above the dense forests of the +lower slopes had the form of a sleeping lion. The flanks and haunches +were vaguely distinguished from the mass; but the mighty head, resting +with its tossed mane upon the vast paws stretched before it, was boldly +sculptured against the sky. The likeness could not have been more +perfect, when you had it in profile, if it had been a definite intention +of art; and you could travel far north and far south before the illusion +vanished. In winter the head was blotted by the snows; and sometimes +the vagrant clouds caught upon it and deformed it, or hid it, at other +seasons; but commonly, after the last snow went in the spring until +the first snow came in the fall, the Lion's Head was a part of the +landscape, as imperative and importunate as the Great Stone Face itself. + +Long after other parts of the hill country were opened to summer +sojourn, the region of Lion's Head remained almost primitively solitary +and savage. A stony mountain road followed the bed of the torrent that +brawled through the valley at its base, and at a certain point a still +rougher lane climbed from the road along the side of the opposite height +to a lonely farm-house pushed back on a narrow shelf of land, with a +meagre acreage of field and pasture broken out of the woods that clothed +all the neighboring steeps. The farm-house level commanded the best view +of Lion's Head, and the visitors always mounted to it, whether they +came on foot, or arrived on buckboards or in buggies, or drove up in the +Concord stages from the farther and nearer hotels. The drivers of the +coaches rested their horses there, and watered them from the spring that +dripped into the green log at the barn; the passengers scattered about +the door-yard to look at the Lion's Head, to wonder at it and mock at +it, according to their several makes and moods. They could scarcely have +felt that they ever had a welcome from the stalwart, handsome woman who +sold them milk, if they wanted it, and small cakes of maple sugar if +they were very strenuous for something else. The ladies were not able to +make much of her from the first; but some of them asked her if it were +not rather lonely there, and she said that when you heard the catamounts +scream at night, and the bears growl in the spring, it did seem +lonesome. When one of them declared that if she should hear a catamount +scream or a bear growl she should die, the woman answered, Well, she +presumed we must all die some time. But the ladies were not sure of a +covert slant in her words, for they were spoken with the same look she +wore when she told them that the milk was five cents a glass, and the +black maple sugar three cents a cake. She did not change when she owned +upon their urgence that the gaunt man whom they glimpsed around the +corners of the house was her husband, and the three lank boys with him +were her sons; that the children whose faces watched them through the +writhing window panes were her two little girls; that the urchin who +stood shyly twisted, all but his white head and sunburned face, into her +dress and glanced at them with a mocking blue eye, was her youngest, and +that he was three years old. With like coldness of voice and face, she +assented to their conjecture that the space walled off in the farther +corner of the orchard was the family burial ground; and she said, with +no more feeling that the ladies could see than she had shown concerning +the other facts, that the graves they saw were those of her husband's +family and of the children she had lost there had been ten children, and +she had lost four. She did not visibly shrink from the pursuit of the +sympathy which expressed itself in curiosity as to the sickness they +had died of; the ladies left her with the belief that they had met a +character, and she remained with the conviction, briefly imparted to her +husband, that they were tonguey. + +The summer folks came more and more, every year, with little variance in +the impression on either side. When they told her that her maple sugar +would sell better if the cake had an image of Lion's Head stamped on it, +she answered that she got enough of Lion's Head without wanting to see +it on all the sugar she made. But the next year the cakes bore a rude +effigy of Lion's Head, and she said that one of her boys had cut the +stamp out with his knife; she now charged five cents a cake for the +sugar, but her manner remained the same. It did not change when the +excursionists drove away, and the deep silence native to the place +fell after their chatter. When a cock crew, or a cow lowed, or a horse +neighed, or one of the boys shouted to the cattle, an echo retorted +from the granite base of Lion's Head, and then she had all the noise she +wanted, or, at any rate, all the noise there was most of the time. Now +and then a wagon passed on the stony road by the brook in the valley, +and sent up its clatter to the farm-house on its high shelf, but +there was scarcely another break from the silence except when the +coaching-parties came. + +The continuous clash and rush of the brook was like a part of the +silence, as the red of the farm-house and the barn was like a part of +the green of the fields and woods all round them: the black-green of +pines and spruces, the yellow-green of maples and birches, dense to +the tops of the dreary hills, and breaking like a bated sea around the +Lion's Head. The farmer stooped at his work, with a thin, inward-curving +chest, but his wife stood straight at hers; and she had a massive beauty +of figure and a heavily moulded regularity of feature that impressed +such as had eyes to see her grandeur among the summer folks. She was +forty when they began to come, and an ashen gray was creeping over the +reddish heaps of her hair, like the pallor that overlies the crimson of +the autumnal oak. She showed her age earlier than most fair people, but +since her marriage at eighteen she had lived long in the deaths of the +children she had lost. They were born with the taint of their father's +family, and they withered from their cradles. The youngest boy alone; +of all her brood, seemed to have inherited her health and strength. +The rest as they grew up began to cough, as she had heard her husband's +brothers and sisters cough, and then she waited in hapless patience the +fulfilment of their doom. The two little girls whose faces the ladies +of the first coaching-party saw at the farm-house windows had died away +from them; two of the lank boys had escaped, and in the perpetual exile +of California and Colorado had saved themselves alive. Their father +talked of going, too, but ten years later he still dragged himself +spectrally about the labors of the farm, with the same cough at sixty +which made his oldest son at twenty-nine look scarcely younger than +himself. + + + + +II. + +One soft noon in the middle of August the farmer came in from the +corn-field that an early frost had blighted, and told his wife that they +must give it up. He said, in his weak, hoarse voice, with the catarrhal +catching in it, that it was no use trying to make a living on the farm +any longer. The oats had hardly been worth cutting, and now the corn was +gone, and there was not hay enough without it to winter the stock; if +they got through themselves they would have to live on potatoes. Have a +vendue, and sell out everything before the snow flew, and let the State +take the farm and get what it could for it, and turn over the balance +that was left after the taxes; the interest of the savings-bank mortgage +would soon eat that up. + +The long, loose cough took him, and another cough answered it like an +echo from the barn, where his son was giving the horses their feed. +The mild, wan-eyed young man came round the corner presently toward the +porch where his father and mother were sitting, and at the same moment +a boy came up the lane to the other corner; there were sixteen years +between the ages of the brothers, who alone were left of the children +born into and borne out of the house. The young man waited till they +were within whispering distance of each other, and then he gasped: +“Where you been?” + +The boy answered, promptly, “None your business,” and went up the steps +before the young man, with a lop-eared, liver-colored mongrel at his +heels. He pulled off his ragged straw hat and flung it on the floor of +the porch. “Dinner over?” he demanded. + +His father made no answer; his mother looked at the boy's hands and +face, all of much the same earthen cast, up to the eaves of his thatch +of yellow hair, and said: “You go and wash yourself.” At a certain light +in his mother's eye, which he caught as he passed into the house with +his dog, the boy turned and cut a defiant caper. The oldest son sat down +on the bench beside his father, and they all looked in silence at the +mountain before them. They heard the boy whistling behind the house, +with sputtering and blubbering noises, as if he were washing his face +while he whistled; and then they heard him singing, with a muffled +sound, and sharp breaks from the muffled sound, as if he were singing +into the towel; he shouted to his dog and threatened him, and the +scuffling of his feet came to them through all as if he were dancing. + +“Been after them woodchucks ag'in,” his father huskily suggested. + +“I guess so,” said the mother. The brother did not speak; he coughed +vaguely, and let his head sink forward. + +The father began a statement of his affairs. + +The mother said: “You don't want to go into that; we been all over it +before. If it's come to the pinch, now, it's come. But you want to be +sure.” + +The man did not answer directly. “If we could sell off now and get out +to where Jim is in Californy, and get a piece of land--” He stopped, +as if confronted with some difficulty which he had met before, but had +hoped he might not find in his way this time. + +His wife laughed grimly. “I guess, if the truth was known, we're too +poor to get away.” + +“We're poor,” he whispered back. He added, with a weak obstinacy: +“I d'know as we're as poor as that comes to. The things would fetch +something.” + +“Enough to get us out there, and then we should be on Jim's hands,” said +the woman. + +“We should till spring, maybe. I d'know as I want to face another winter +here, and I d'know as Jackson does.” + +The young man gasped back, courageously: “I guess I can get along here +well enough.” + +“It's made Jim ten years younger. That's what he said,” urged the +father. + +The mother smiled as grimly as she had laughed. “I don't believe it 'll +make you ten years richer, and that's what you want.” + +“I don't believe but what we should ha' done something with the place by +spring. Or the State would,” the father said, lifelessly. + +The voice of the boy broke in upon them from behind. “Say, mother, a'n't +you never goin' to have dinner?” He was standing in the doorway, with a +startling cleanness of the hands and face, and a strange, wet sleekness +of the hair. His clothes were bedrabbled down the front with soap and +water. + +His mother rose and went toward him; his father and brother rose like +apparitions, and slanted after her at one angle. + +“Say,” the boy called again to his mother, “there comes a peddler.” He +pointed down the road at the figure of a man briskly ascending the lane +toward the house, with a pack on his back and some strange appendages +dangling from it. + +The woman did not look round; neither of the men looked round; they all +kept on in-doors, and she said to the boy, as she passed him: “I got no +time to waste on peddlers. You tell him we don't want anything.” + +The boy waited for the figure on the lane to approach. It was the figure +of a young man, who slung his burden lightly from his shoulders when he +arrived, and then stood looking at the boy, with his foot planted on the +lowermost tread of the steps climbing from the ground to the porch. + + + + +III. + +The boy must have permitted these advances that he might inflict the +greater disappointment when he spoke. “We don't want anything,” he said, +insolently. + +“Don't you?” the stranger returned. “I do. I want dinner. Go in and tell +your mother, and then show me where I can wash my hands.” + +The bold ease of the stranger seemed to daunt the boy, and he stood +irresolute. His dog came round the corner of the house at the first word +of the parley, and, while his master was making up his mind what to do, +he smelled at the stranger's legs. “Well, you can't have any dinner,” + said the boy, tentatively. The dog raised the bristles on his neck, and +showed his teeth with a snarl. The stranger promptly kicked him in the +jaw, and the dog ran off howling. “Come here, sir!” the boy called to +him, but the dog vanished round the house with a fading yelp. + +“Now, young man,” said the stranger, “will you go and do as you're bid? +I'm ready to pay for my dinner, and you can say so.” The boy stared at +him, slowly taking in the facts of his costume, with eyes that climbed +from the heavy shoes up the legs of his thick-ribbed stockings and his +knickerbockers, past the pleats and belt of his Norfolk jacket, to the +red neckcloth tied under the loose collar of his flannel outing-shirt, +and so by his face, with its soft, young beard and its quiet eyes, to +the top of his braidless, bandless slouch hat of soft felt. It was one +of the earliest costumes of the kind that had shown itself in the hill +country, and it was altogether new to the boy. “Come,” said the wearer +of it, “don't stand on the order of your going, but go at once,” and he +sat down on the steps with his back to the boy, who heard these strange +terms of command with a face of vague envy. + +The noonday sunshine lay in a thin, silvery glister on the slopes of the +mountain before them, and in the brilliant light the colossal forms of +the Lion's Head were prismatically outlined against the speckless sky. +Through the silvery veil there burned here and there on the densely +wooded acclivities the crimson torch of a maple, kindled before its +time, but everywhere else there was the unbroken green of the forest, +subdued to one tone of gray. The boy heard the stranger fetch his breath +deeply, and then expel it in a long sigh, before he could bring +himself to obey an order that seemed to leave him without the choice of +disobedience. He came back and found the stranger as he had left him. +“Come on, if you want your dinner,” he said; and the stranger rose and +looked at him. + +“What's your name?” he asked. + +“Thomas Jefferson Durgin.” + +“Well, Thomas Jefferson Durgin, will you show me the way to the pump and +bring a towel along?” + +“Want to wash?” + +“I haven't changed my mind.” + +“Come along, then.” The boy made a movement as if to lead the way +indoors; the stranger arrested him. + +“Here. Take hold of this and put it out of the rush of travel +somewhere.” He lifted his burden from where he had dropped it in the +road and swung it toward the boy, who ran down the steps and embraced +it. As he carried it toward a corner of the porch he felt of the various +shapes and materials in it. + +Then he said, “Come on!” again, and went before the guest through the +dim hall running midway of the house to the door at the rear. He left +him on a narrow space of stone flagging there, and ran with a tin basin +to the spring at the barn and brought it back to him full of the cold +water. + +“Towel,” he said, pulling at the family roller inside the little porch +at the door; and he watched the stranger wash his hands and face, and +then search for a fresh place on the towel. + +Before the stranger had finished the father and the elder brother came +out, and, after an ineffectual attempt to salute him, slanted away to +the barn together. The woman, in-doors, was more successful, when he +found her in the dining-room, where the boy showed him. The table was +set for him alone, and it affected him as if the family had been hurried +away from it that he might have it to himself. Everything was very +simple: the iron forks had two prongs; the knives bone handles; the dull +glass was pressed; the heavy plates and cups were white, but so was the +cloth, and all were clean. The woman brought in a good boiled dinner +of corned-beef, potatoes, turnips, and carrots from the kitchen, and a +teapot, and said something about having kept them hot on the stove for +him; she brought him a plate of biscuit fresh from the oven; then she +said to the boy, “You come out and have your dinner with me, Jeff,” and +left the guest to make his meal unmolested. + +The room was square, with two north windows that looked down the lane he +had climbed to the house. An open door led into the kitchen in an +ell, and a closed door opposite probably gave access to a parlor or a +ground-floor chamber. The windows were darkened down to the lower sash +by green paper shades; the walls were papered in a pattern of brown +roses; over the chimney hung a large picture, a life-size pencil-drawing +of two little girls, one slightly older and slightly larger than the +other, each with round eyes and precise ringlets, and with her hand +clasped in the other's hand. + +The guest seemed helpless to take his gaze from it, and he sat fallen +back in his chair at it when the woman came in with a pie. + +“Thank you, I believe I don't want any dessert,” he said. “The fact is, +the dinner was so good that I haven't left any room for pie. Are those +your children?” + +“Yes,” said the woman, looking up at the picture with the pie in her +hand. “They're the last two I lost.” + +“Oh, excuse me--” the guest began. + +“It's the way they appear in the spirit life. It's a spirit picture.” + +“Oh, I thought there was something strange about it.” + +“Well, it's a good deal like the photograph we had taken about a year +before they died. It's a good likeness. They say they don't change a +great deal at first.” + +She seemed to refer the point to him for his judgment, but he answered +wide of it: + +“I came up here to paint your mountain, if you don't mind, Mrs. +Durgin-Lion's Head, I mean.” + +“Oh yes. Well, I don't know as we could stop you if you wanted to take +it away.” A spare glimmer lighted up her face. + +The painter rejoined in kind: “The town might have something to say, I +suppose.” + +“Not if you was to leave a good piece of intervale in place of it. We've +got mountains to spare.” + +“Well, then, that's arranged. What about a week's board?” + +“I guess you can stay if you're satisfied.” + +“I'll be satisfied if I can stay. How much do you want?” + +The woman looked down, probably with an inward anxiety between the +fear of asking too much and the folly of asking too little. She said, +tentatively: “Some of the folks that come over from the hotels say they +pay as much as twenty dollars a week.” + +“But you don't expect hotel prices?” + +“I don't know as I do. We've never had anybody before.” + +The stranger relaxed the frown he had put on at the greed of her +suggestion; it might have come from ignorance or mere innocence. “I'm +in the habit of paying five dollars for farm board, where I stay several +weeks. What do you say to seven for a single week?” + +“I guess that 'll do,” said the woman, and she went out with the pie, +which she had kept in her hand. + + + + +IV. + +The painter went round to the front of the house and walked up and down +before it for different points of view. He ran down the lane some way, +and then came back and climbed to the sloping field behind the barn, +where he could look at Lion's Head over the roof of the house. He tried +an open space in the orchard, where he backed against the wall enclosing +the little burial-ground. He looked round at it without seeming to see +it, and then went back to the level where the house stood. “This is the +place,” he said to himself. But the boy, who had been lurking after +him, with the dog lurking at, his own heels in turn, took the words as a +proffer of conversation. + +“I thought you'd come to it,” he sneered. + +“Did you?” asked the painter, with a smile for the unsatisfied grudge in +the boy's tone. “Why didn't you tell me sooner?” + +The boy looked down, and apparently made up his mind to wait until +something sufficiently severe should come to him for a retort. “Want I +should help you get your things?” he asked, presently. + +“Why, yes,” said the painter, with a glance of surprise. “I shall be +much obliged for a lift.” He started toward the porch where his burden +lay, and the boy ran before him. They jointly separated the knapsack +from the things tied to it, and the painter let the boy carry the easel +and campstool which developed themselves from their folds and hinges, +and brought the colors and canvas himself to the spot he had chosen. +The boy looked at the tag on the easel after it was placed, and read the +name on it--Jere Westover. “That's a funny name.” + +“I'm glad it amuses you,” said the owner of it. + +Again the boy cast down his eyes discomfited, and seemed again resolving +silently to bide his time and watch for another chance. + +Westover forgot him in the fidget he fell into, trying this and that +effect, with his head slanted one way and then slanted the other, his +hand held up to shut out the mountain below the granite mass of Lion's +Head, and then changed to cut off the sky above; and then both hands +lifted in parallel to confine the picture. He made some tentative +scrawls on his canvas in charcoal, and he wasted so much time that the +light on the mountain-side began to take the rich tone of the afternoon +deepening to evening. A soft flush stole into it; the sun dipped behind +the top south of the mountain, and Lion's Head stood out against the +intense clearness of the west, which began to be flushed with exquisite +suggestions of violet and crimson. + +“Good Lord!” said Westover; and he flew at his colors and began to +paint. He had got his canvas into such a state that he alone could have +found it much more intelligible than his palette, when he heard the boy +saying, over his shoulder: “I don't think that looks very much like +it.” He had last been aware of the boy sitting at the grassy edge of the +lane, tossing small bits of earth and pebble across to his dog, which +sat at the other edge and snapped at them. Then he lost consciousness of +him. He answered, dreamily, while he found a tint he was trying for with +his brush: “Perhaps you don't know.” He was so sure of his effect that +the popular censure speaking in the boy's opinion only made him happier +in it. + +“I know what I see,” said the boy. + +“I doubt it,” said Westover, and then he lost consciousness of him +again. He was rapt deep and far into the joy of his work, and had no +thought but for that, and for the dim question whether it would be such +another day to-morrow, with that light again on Lion's Head, when he was +at last sensible of a noise that he felt he must have been hearing some +time without noting it. It was a lamentable, sound of screaming, as of +some one in mortal terror, mixed with wild entreaties. “Oh, don't, Jeff! +Oh, don't, don't, don't! Oh, please! Oh, do let us be! Oh, Jeff, don't!” + +Westover looked round bewildered, and not able, amid the clamor of the +echoes, to make out where the cries came from. Then, down at the point +where the lane joined the road to the southward and the road lost itself +in the shadow of a woodland, he saw the boy leaping back and forth +across the track, with his dog beside him; he was shouting and his dog +barking furiously; those screams and entreaties came from within the +shadow. Westover plunged down the lane headlong, with a speed that +gathered at each bound, and that almost flung him on his face when he +reached the level where the boy and the dog were dancing back and forth +across the road. Then he saw, crouching in the edge of the wood, a +little girl, who was uttering the appeals he had heard, and clinging to +her, with a face of frantic terror, a child of five or six years; +her cries had grown hoarse, and had a hard, mechanical action as they +followed one another. They were really in no danger, for the boy held +his dog tight by his collar, and was merely delighting himself with +their terror. + +The painter hurled himself upon him, and, with a quick grip upon his +collar, gave him half a dozen flat-handed blows wherever he could plant +them and then flung him reeling away. + +“You infernal little ruffian!” he roared at him; and the sound of his +voice was enough for the dog; he began to scale the hill-side toward the +house without a moment's stay. + +The children still crouched together, and Westover could hardly make +them understand that they were in his keeping when he bent over them +and bade them not be frightened. The little girl set about wiping +the child's eyes on her apron in a motherly fashion; her own were dry +enough, and Westover fancied there was more of fury than of fright in +her face. She seemed lost to any sense of his presence, and kept on +talking fiercely to herself, while she put the little boy in order, like +an indignant woman. + +“Great, mean, ugly thing! I'll tell the teacher on him, that's what I +will, as soon as ever school begins. I'll see if he can come round with +that dog of his scaring folks! I wouldn't 'a' been a bit afraid if it +hadn't 'a' been for Franky. Don't cry any more, Franky. Don't you see +they're gone? I presume he thinks it smart to scare a little boy and a +girl. If I was a boy once, I'd show him!” + +She made no sign of gratitude to Westover: as far as any recognition +from her was concerned, his intervention was something as impersonal as +if it had been a thunder-bolt falling upon her enemies from the sky. + +“Where do you live?” he asked. “I'll go home with you if you'll tell me +where you live.” + +She looked up at him in a daze, and Westover heard the Durgin boy +saying: “She lives right there in that little wood-colored house at the +other end of the lane. There ain't no call to go home with her.” + +Westover turned and saw the boy kneeling at the edge of a clump of +bushes, where he must have struck; he was rubbing, with a tuft of grass, +at the dirt ground into the knees of his trousers. + +The little, girl turned hawkishly upon him. “Not for anything you can +do, Jeff Durgin!” + +The boy did not answer. + +“There!” she said, giving a final pull and twitch to the dress of her +brother, and taking him by the hand tenderly. “Now, come right along, +Franky.” + +“Let me have your other hand,” said Westover, and, with the little boy +between them, they set off toward the point where the lane joined the +road on the northward. They had to pass the bushes where Jeff Durgin was +crouching, and the little girl turned and made a face at him. “Oh, oh! I +don't think I should have done that,” said Westover. + +“I don't care!” said the little girl. But she said, in explanation and +partial excuse: “He tries to scare all the girls. I'll let him know 't +he can't scare one!” + +Westover looked up toward the Durgin house with a return of interest in +the canvas he had left in the lane on the easel. Nothing had happened +to it. At the door of the barn he saw the farmer and his eldest son +slanting forward and staring down the hill at the point he had come +from. Mrs. Durgin was looking out from the shelter of the porch, and she +turned and went in with Jeff's dog at her skirts when Westover came in +sight with the children. + + + + +V. + +Westover had his tea with the family, but nothing was said or done to +show that any of them resented or even knew of what had happened to the +boy from him. Jeff himself seemed to have no grudge. He went out with +Westover, when the meal was ended, and sat on the steps of the porch +with him, watching the painter watch the light darken on the lonely +heights and in the lonely depths around. Westover smoked a pipe, and the +fire gleamed and smouldered in it regularly with his breathing; the boy, +on a lower' step, pulled at the long ears of his dog and gazed up at +him. + +They were both silent till the painter asked: “What do you do here when +you're not trying to scare little children to death?” + +The boy hung his head and said, with the effect of excusing a long +arrears of uselessness: “I'm goin' to school as soon as it commences.” + +“There's one branch of your education that I should like to undertake +if I ever saw you at a thing like that again. Don't you feel ashamed of +yourself?” + +The boy pulled so hard at the dog's ear that the dog gave a faint yelp +of protest. + +“They might 'a' seen that I had him by the collar. I wa'n't a-goin' to +let go.” + +“Well, the next time I have you by the collar I won't let go, either,” + said the painter; but he felt an inadequacy in his threat, and he +imagined a superfluity, and he made some haste to ask: “who are they?” + +“Whitwell is their name. They live in that little house where you +took them. Their father's got a piece of land on Zion's Head that he's +clearin' off for the timber. Their mother's dead, and Cynthy keeps +house. She's always makin' up names and faces,” added the boy. “She +thinks herself awful smart. That Franky's a perfect cry-baby.” + +“Well, upon my word! You are a little ruffian,” said Westover, and he +knocked the ashes out of his pipe. “The next time you meet that poor +little creature you tell her that I think you're about the shabbiest +chap I know, and that I hope the teacher will begin where I left off +with you and not leave blackguard enough in you to--” + +He stopped for want of a fitting figure, and the boy said: “I guess the +teacher won't touch me.” + +Westover rose, and the boy flung his dog away from him with his foot. +“Want I should show you where to sleep?” + +“Yes,” said Westover, and the boy hulked in before him, vanishing +into the dark of the interior, and presently appeared with a lighted +hand-lamp. He led the way upstairs to a front room looking down upon the +porch roof and over toward Zion's Head, which Westover could see dimly +outlined against the night sky, when he lifted the edge of the paper +shade and peered out. + +The room was neat, with greater comfort in its appointments than he +hoped for. He tried the bed, and found it hard, but of straw, and not +the feathers he had dreaded; while the boy looked into the water-pitcher +to see if it was full; and then went out without any form of goodnight. + +Westover would have expected to wash in a tin basin at the back door, +and wipe on the family towel, but all the means of toilet, such as +they were, he found at hand here, and a surprise which he had felt at +a certain touch in the cooking renewed itself at the intelligent +arrangements for his comfort. A secondary quilt was laid across the foot +of his bed; his window-shade was pulled down, and, though the window +was shut and the air stuffy within, there was a sense of cleanliness in +everything which was not at variance with the closeness. + +The bed felt fresh when he got into it, and the sweet breath of the +mountains came in so cold through the sash he had lifted that he was +glad to pull the secondary quilt up over him. He heard the clock tick +in some room below; from another quarter came the muffled sound of +coughing; but otherwise the world was intensely still, and he slept deep +and long. + + + + +VI. + +The men folks had finished their breakfast and gone to their farm-work +hours before Westover came down to his breakfast, but the boy seemed +to be of as much early leisure as himself, and was lounging on the +threshold of the back door, with his dog in waiting upon him. He gave +the effect of yesterday's cleanliness freshened up with more recent +soap and water. At the moment Westover caught sight of him, he heard his +mother calling to him from the kitchen, “Well, now, come in and get your +breakfast, Jeff,” and the boy called to Westover, in turn, “I'll tell +her you're here,” as he rose and came in-doors. “I guess she's got your +breakfast for you.” + +Mrs. Durgin brought the breakfast almost as soon as Westover had found +his way to the table, and she lingered as if for some expression of his +opinion upon it. The biscuit and the butter were very good, and he said +so; the eggs were fresh, and the hash from yesterday's corned-beef could +not have been better, and he praised them; but he was silent about the +coffee. + +“It a'n't very good,” she suggested. + +“Why, I'm used to making my own coffee; I lived so long in a country +where it's nearly the whole of breakfast that I got into the habit of +it, and I always carry my little machine with me; but I don't like to +bring it out, unless--” + +“Unless you can't stand the other folks's,” said the woman, with a +humorous gleam. “Well, you needn't mind me. I want you should have good +coffee, and I guess I a'n't too old to learn, if you want to show me. +Our folks don't care for it much; they like tea; and I kind of got out +of the way of it. But at home we had to have it.” She explained, to his +inquiring glance. + +“My father kept the tavern on the old road to St. Albans, on the other +side of Lion's Head. That's where I always lived till I married here.” + +“Oh,” said Westover, and he felt that she had proudly wished to account +for a quality which she hoped he had noticed in her cooking. He thought +she might be going to tell him something more of herself, but she only +said, “Well, any time you want to show me your way of makin' coffee,” + and went out of the room. + +That evening, which was the close of another flawless day, he sat again +watching the light outside, when he saw her come into the hallway with +a large shade-lamp in her hand. She stopped at the door of a room he had +not seen yet, and looked out at him to ask: + +“Won't you come in and set in the parlor if you want to?” + +He found her there when he came in, and her two sons with her; the +younger was sleepily putting away some school-books, and the elder +seemed to have been helping him with his lessons. + +“He's got to begin school next week,” she said to Westover; and at the +preparations the other now began to make with a piece of paper and +a planchette which he had on the table before him, she asked, in the +half-mocking, half-deprecating way which seemed characteristic of her: +“You believe any in that?” + +“I don't know that I've ever seen it work,” said the painter. + +“Well, sometimes it won't work,” she returned, altogether mockingly now, +and sat holding her shapely hands, which were neither so large nor so +rough as they might have been, across her middle and watching her son +while the machine pushed about under his palm, and he bent his wan eyes +upon one of the oval-framed photographs on the wall, as if rapt in a +supernal vision. The boy stared drowsily at the planchette, jerking this +way and that, and making abrupt starts and stops. At last the young man +lifted his palm from it, and put it aside to study the hieroglyphics it +had left on the paper. + +“What's it say?” asked his mother. + +The young man whispered: “I can't seem to make out very clear. I guess I +got to take a little time to it,” he added, leaning back wearily in his +chair. “Ever seen much of the manifestations?” he gasped at Westover. + +“Never any, before,” said the painter, with a leniency for the invalid +which he did not feel for his belief. + +The young man tried for his voice, and found enough of it to say: +“There's a trance medium over at the Huddle. Her control says 't I can +develop into a writin' medium.” He seemed to refer the fact as a sort of +question to Westover, who could think of nothing to say but that it must +be very interesting to feel that one had such a power. + +“I guess he don't know he's got it yet,” his mother interposed. “And +planchette don't seem to know, either.” + +“We ha'n't given it a fair trial yet,” said the young man, impartially, +almost impassively. + +“Wouldn't you like to see it do some of your sums, Jeff?” said the +mother to the drowsy boy, blinking in a corner. “You better go to bed.” + +The elder brother rose. “I guess I'll go, too.” + +The father had not joined their circle in the parlor, now breaking up by +common consent. + +Mrs. Durgin took up her lamp again and looked round on the appointments +of the room, as if she wished Westover to note them, too: the drab +wallpaper, the stiff chairs, the long, hard sofa in haircloth, the high +bureau of mahogany veneer. + +“You can come in here and set or lay down whenever you feel like it,” + she said. “We use it more than folks generally, I presume; we got in the +habit, havin' it open for funerals.” + + + + +VII. + +Four or five days of perfect weather followed one another, and Westover +worked hard at his picture in the late afternoon light he had chosen for +it. In the morning he tramped through the woods and climbed the hills +with Jeff Durgin, who seemed never to do anything about the farm, and +had a leisure unbroken by anything except a rare call from his mother to +help her in the house. He built the kitchen fire, and got the wood for +it; he picked the belated pease and the early beans in the garden, and +shelled them; on the Monday when the school opened he did a share of +the family wash, which seemed to have been begun before daylight, and +Westover saw him hanging out the clothes before he started off with +his books. He suffered no apparent loss of self-respect in these +employments, and, while he still had his days free, he put himself +at Westover's disposal with an effect of unimpaired equality. He had +expected, evidently, that Westover would want to fish or shoot, or at +least join him in the hunt for woodchucks, which he still carried on +with abated zeal for lack of his company when the painter sat down to +sketch certain bits that struck him. When he found that Westover cared +for nothing in the way of sport, as people commonly understand it, he +did not openly contemn him. He helped him get the flowers he studied, +and he learned to know true mushrooms from him, though he did not follow +his teaching in eating the toadstools, as his mother called them, when +they brought them home to be cooked. + +If it could not be said that he shared the affection which began to grow +up in Westover from their companionship, there could be no doubt of +the interest he took in him, though it often seemed the same critical +curiosity which appeared in the eye of his dog when it dwelt upon the +painter. Fox had divined in his way that Westover was not only not to be +molested, but was to be respectfully tolerated, yet no gleam of kindness +ever lighted up his face at sight of the painter; he never wagged his +tail in recognition of him; he simply recognized him and no more, and he +remained passive under Westover's advances, which he had the effect of +covertly referring to Jeff, when the boy was by, for his approval or +disapproval; when he was not by, the dog's manner implied a reservation +of opinion until the facts could be submitted to his master. + +On the Saturday morning which was the last they were to have together, +the three comrades had strayed from the vague wood road along one of the +unexpected levels on the mountain slopes, and had come to a standstill +in a place which the boy pretended not to know his way out of. Westover +doubted him, for he had found that Jeff liked to give himself credit +for woodcraft by discovering an escape from the depths of trackless +wildernesses. + +“I guess you know where we are,” he suggested. + +“No, honestly,” said the boy; but he grinned, and Westover still doubted +him. + +“Hark! What's that?” he said, hushing further speech from him with a +motion of his hand. It was the sound of an axe. + +“Oh, I know where we are,” said Jeff. “It's that Canuck chopping in +Whitwell's clearing. Come along.” + +He led the way briskly down the mountain-side now, stopping from time +to time and verifying his course by the sound of the axe. This came and +went, and by-and-by it ceased altogether, and Jeff crept forward with +a real or feigned uncertainty. Suddenly he stopped. A voice called, +“Heigh, there!” and the boy turned and fled, crashing through the +underbrush at a tangent, with his dog at his heels. + +Westover looked after them, and then came forward. A lank figure of a +man at the foot of a poplar, which he had begun to fell, stood waiting +him, one hand on his axe-helve and the other on his hip. There was the +scent of freshly smitten bark and sap-wood in the air; the ground was +paved with broad, clean chips. + +“Good-morning,” said Westover. + +“How are you?” returned the other, without moving or making any sign of +welcome for a moment. But then he lifted his axe and struck it into the +carf on the tree, and came to meet Westover. + +As he advanced he held out his hand. “Oh, you're the one that stopped +that fellow that day when he was tryin' to scare my children. Well, +I thought I should run across you some time.” He shook hands with +Westover, in token of the gratitude which did not express itself in +words. “How are you? Treat you pretty well up at the Durgins'? I guess +so. The old woman knows how to cook, anyway. Jackson's about the best +o' the lot above ground, though I don't know as I know very much against +the old man, either. But that boy! I declare I 'most feel like takin' +the top of his head off when he gets at his tricks. Set down.” + +Whitwell, as Westover divined the man to be, took a seat himself on +a high stump, which suited his length of leg, and courteously waved +Westover to a place on the log in front of him. A long, ragged beard of +brown, with lines of gray in it, hung from his chin and mounted well up +on his thin cheeks toward his friendly eyes. His mustache lay sunken on +his lip, which had fallen in with the loss of his upper teeth. From the +lower jaw a few incisors showed at this slant and that as he talked. + +“Well, well!” he said, with the air of wishing the talk to go on, but +without having anything immediately to offer himself. + +Westover said, “Thank you,” as he dropped on the log, and Whitwell +added, relentingly: “I don't suppose a fellow's so much to blame, if +he's got the devil in him, as what the devil is.” + +He referred the point with a twinkle of his eyes to Westover, who said: +“It's always a question, of course, whether it's the devil. It may be +original sin with the fellow himself.” + +“Well, that's something so,” said Whitwell, with pleasure in the +distinction rather than assent. “But I guess it ain't original sin in +the boy. Got it from his gran'father pootty straight, I should say, +and maybe the old man had it secondhand. Ha'd to say just where so much +cussedness gits statted.” + +“His father's father?” asked Westover, willing to humor Whitwell's +evident wish to philosophize the Durgins' history. + +“Mother's. He kept the old tavern stand on the west side of Lion's Head, +on the St. Albans Road, and I guess he kept a pootty good house in the +old times when the stages stopped with him. Ever noticed how a man on +the mean side in politics always knows how to keep a hotel? Well, it's +something curious. If there was ever a mean side to any question, old +Mason was on it. My folks used to live around there, and I can remember +when I was a boy hangin' around the bar-room nights hearin' him +argue that colored folks had no souls; and along about the time the +fugitive-slave law was passed the folks pootty near run him out o' town +for puttin' the United States marshal on the scent of a fellow that +was breakin' for Canada. Well, it was just so when the war come. It was +known for a fact that he was in with them Secesh devils up over the line +that was plannin' a raid into Vermont in '63. He'd got pootty low down +by that time; railroads took off all the travel; tavern 'd got to be +a regular doggery; old man always drank some, I guess. That was a good +while after his girl had married Durgin. He was dead against it, and it +broke him up consid'able when she would have him: Well, one night the +old stand burnt up and him in it, and neither of 'em insured.” + +Whitwell laughed with a pleasure in his satire which gave the monuments +in his lower jaw a rather sinister action. But, as if he felt a rebuke +in Westover's silence, he added: “There ain't anything against Mis' +Durgin. She's done her part, and she's had more than her share of hard +knocks. If she was tough, to sta't with, she's had blows enough to +meller her. But that's the way I account for the boy. I s'pose--I'd +oughtn't to feel the way I do about him, but he's such a pest to the +whole neighborhood that he'd have the most pop'la' fune'l. Well, I guess +I've said enough. I'm much obliged to you, though, Mr.--” + +“Westover,” the painter suggested. “But the boy isn't so bad all the +time.” + +“Couldn't be,” said Whitwell, with a cackle of humorous enjoyment. “He +has his spells of bein' decent, and he's pootty smart, too. But when the +other spell ketches him it's like as if the devil got a-hold of him, +as I said in the first place. I lost my wife here two-three years along +back, and that little girl you see him tormentin', she's a regular +little mother to her brother; and whenever Jeff Durgin sees her with +him, seems as if the Old Scratch got into him. Well, I'm glad I didn't +come across him that day. How you gittin' along with Lion's Head? Sets +quiet enough for you?” Whitwell rose from the stump and brushed the +clinging chips from his thighs. “Folks trouble you any, lookin' on?” + +“Not yet,” said Westover. + +“Well, there ain't a great many to,” said Whitwell, going back to his +axe. “I should like to see you workin' some day. Do' know as I ever saw +an attist at it.” + +“I should like to have you,” said Westover. “Any time.” + +“All right.” Whitwell pulled his axe out of the carf, and struck it in +again with a force that made a wide, square chip leap out. He looked +over his shoulder at Westover, who was moving away. “Say, stop in some +time you're passin'. I live in that wood-colored house at the foot of +the Durgins' lane.” + + + + +VIII. + +In a little sunken place, behind a rock, some rods away, Westover found +Jeff lurking with his dog, both silent and motionless. “Hello?” he said, +inquiringly. + +“Come back to show you the way,” said the boy. “Thought you couldn't +find it alone.” + +“Oh, why didn't you say you'd wait?” The boy grinned. “I shouldn't think +a fellow like you would want to be afraid of any man, even for the fun +of scaring a little girl.” Jeff stopped grinning and looked interested, +as if this was a view of the case that had not occurred to him. “But +perhaps you like to be afraid.” + +“I don't know as I do,” said the boy, and Westover left him to the +question a great part of the way home. He did not express any regret or +promise any reparation. But a few days after that, when he had begun +to convoy parties of children up to see Westover at work, in the late +afternoon, on their way home from school, and to show the painter off to +them as a sort of family property, he once brought the young Whitwells. +He seemed on perfect terms with them now, and when the crowd of larger +children hindered the little boy's view of the picture, Jeff, in his +quality of host, lifted him under his arms and held him up so that he +could look as long as he liked. + +The girl seemed ashamed of the good understanding before Westover. Jeff +offered to make a place for her among the other children who had looked +long enough, but she pulled the front of her bonnet across her face and +said that she did not want to look, and caught her brother by the hand +and ran away with him. Westover thought this charming, somewhat; he +liked the intense shyness which the child's intense passion had hidden +from him before. + +Jeff acted as host to the neighbors who came to inspect the picture, and +they all came, within a circuit of several miles around, and gave +him their opinions freely or scantily, according to their several +temperaments. They were mainly favorable, though there was some frank +criticism, too, spoken over the painter's shoulder as openly as if he +were not by. There was no question but of likeness; all finer facts were +far from them; they wished to see how good a portrait Westover had made, +and some of them consoled him with the suggestion that the likeness +would come out more when the picture got dry. + +Whitwell, when he came, attempted a larger view of the artist's work, +but apparently more out of kindness for him than admiration of the +picture. He said he presumed you could not always get a thing like that +just right the first time, and that you had to keep trying till you did +get it; but it paid in the end. Jeff had stolen down from the house with +his dog, drawn by the fascination which one we have injured always has +for us; when Whitwell suddenly turned upon him and asked, jocularly, +“What do you think, Jeff?” the boy could only kick his dog and drive it +home, as a means of hiding his feelings. + +He brought the teacher to see the picture the last Friday before the +painter went away. She was a cold-looking, austere girl, pretty enough, +with eyes that wandered away from the young man, although Jeff used all +his arts to make her feel at home in his presence. She pretended to have +merely stopped on her way up to see Mrs. Durgin, and she did not venture +any comment on the painting; but, when Westover asked something about +her school, she answered him promptly enough as to the number and ages +and sexes of the school-children. He ventured so far toward a joke with +her as to ask if she had much trouble with such a tough subject as Jeff, +and she said he could be good enough when he had a mind. If he could get +over his teasing, she said, with the air of reading him a lecture, she +would not have anything to complain of; and Jeff looked ashamed, but +rather of the praise than the blame. His humiliation seemed complete +when she said, finally: “He's a good scholar.” + +On the Tuesday following, Westover meant to go. It was the end of his +third week, and it had brought him into September. The weather since he +had begun to paint Lion's Head was perfect for his work; but, with the +long drought, it had grown very warm. Many trees now had flamed into +crimson on the hill-slopes; the yellowing corn in the fields gave out +a thin, dry sound as the delicate wind stirred the blades; but only the +sounds and sights were autumnal. The heat was oppressive at midday, and +at night the cold had lost its edge. There was no dew, and Mrs. Durgin +sat out with Westover on the porch while he smoked a final pipe there. +She had come to join him for some fixed purpose, apparently, and she +called to her boy, “You go to bed, Jeff,” as if she wished to be alone +with Westover; the men folks were already in bed; he could hear them +cough now and then. + +“Mr. Westover,” the woman began, even as she swept her skirts forward +before she sat down, “I want to ask you whether you would let that +picture of yours go on part board? I'll give you back just as much as +you say of this money.” + +He looked round and saw that she had in the hand dropped in her lap the +bills he had given her after supper. + +“Why, I couldn't, very well, Mrs. Durgin--” he began. + +“I presume you'll think I'm foolish,” she pursued. “But I do want that +picture; I don't know when I've ever wanted a thing more. It's just +like Lion's Head, the way I've seen it, day in and day out, every summer +since I come here thirty-five years ago; it's beautiful!” + +“Mrs. Durgin,” said Westover, “you gratify me more than I can tell you. +I wish--I wish I could let you have the picture. I--I don't know what to +say--” + +“Why don't you let me have it, then? If we ever had to go away from +here--if anything happened to us--it's the one thing I should want to +keep and take with me. There! That's the way I feel about it. I can't +explain; but I do wish you'd let me have it.” + +Some emotion which did not utter itself in the desire she expressed made +her voice shake in the words. She held out the bank-notes to him, and +they rustled with the tremor of her hand. + +“Mrs. Durgin, I suppose I shall have to be frank with you, and you +mustn't feel hurt. I have to live by my work, and I have to get as much +as I can for it--” + +“That's what I say. I don't want to beat you down on it. I'll give you +whatever you think is right. It's my money, and my husband feels just as +I do about it,” she urged. + +“You don't quite understand,” he said, gently. “I expect to have an +exhibition of my pictures in Boston this fall, and I hope to get two or +three hundred dollars for Lion's Head.” + +“I've been a proper fool,” cried the woman, and she drew in a long +breath. + +“Oh, don't mind,” he begged; “it's all right. I've never had any offer +for a picture that I'd rather take than yours. I know the thing can't be +altogether bad after what you've said. And I'll tell you what! I'll have +it photographed when I get to Boston, and I'll send you a photograph of +it.” + +“How much will that be?” Mrs. Durgin asked, as if taught caution by her +offer for the painting. + +“Nothing. And if you'll accept it and hang it up here somewhere I shall +be very glad.” + +“Thank you,” said Mrs. Durgin, and the meekness, the wounded pride, he +fancied in her, touched him. + +He did not know at first how to break the silence which she let follow +upon her words. At last he said: + +“You spoke, just now, about taking it with you. Of course, you don't +think of leaving Lion's Head?” + +She did not answer for so long a time that he thought she had not +perhaps heard him or heeded what he said; but she answered, finally: +“We did think of it. The day you come we had about made up our minds to +leave.” + +“Oh!” + +“But I've been thinkin' of something since you've been here that I +don't know but you'll say is about as wild as wantin' to buy a +three-hundred-dollar picture with a week's board.” She gave a short, +self-scornful laugh; but it was a laugh, and it relieved the tension. + +“It may not be worth any more,” he said, glad of the relief. + +“Oh, I guess it is,” she rejoined, and then she waited for him to prompt +her. + +“Well?” + +“Well, it's this; and I wanted to ask you, anyway. You think there'd be +any chance of my gettin' summer folks to come here and board if I was +to put an advertisement in a Boston paper? I know it's a lonesome place, +and there ain't what you may call attractions. But the folks from the +hotels, sometimes, when they ride over in a stage to see the view, +praise up the scenery, and I guess it is sightly. I know that well +enough; and I ain't afraid but what I can do for boarders as well as +some, if not better. What do you think?” + +“I think that's a capital idea, Mrs. Durgin.” + +“It's that or go,” she said. “There ain't a livin' for us on the farm +any more, and we got to do somethin'. If there was anything else I could +do! But I've thought it out and thought it out, and I guess there ain't +anything I can do but take boarders--if I can get them.” + +“I should think you'd find it rather pleasant on some accounts. Your +boarders would be company for you,” said Westover. + +“We're company enough for ourselves,” said Mrs. Durgin. “I ain't ever +been lonesome here, from the first minute. I guess I had company enough +when I was a girl to last me the sort that hotel folks are. I presume +Mr. Whitwell spoke to you about my father?” + +“Yes; he did, Mrs. Durgin.” + +“I don't presume he said anything that wa'n't true. It's all right. But +I know how my mother used to slave, and how I used to slave myself; and +I always said I'd rather do anything than wait on boarders; and now I +guess I got to come to it. The sight of summer folks makes me sick! I +guess I could 'a' had 'em long ago if I'd wanted to. There! I've said +enough.” She rose, with a sudden lift of her powerful frame, and stood a +moment as if expecting Westover to say something. + +He said: “Well, when you've made your mind up, send your advertisement +to me, and I'll attend to it for you.” + +“And you won't forget about the picture?” + +“No; I won't forget that.” + +The next morning he made ready for an early start, and in his +preparations he had the zealous and even affectionate help of Jeff +Durgin. The boy seemed to wish him to carry away the best impression +of him, or, at least, to make him forget all that had been sinister or +unpleasant in his behavior. They had been good comrades since the first +evil day; they had become good friends even; and Westover was touched +by the boy's devotion at parting. He helped the painter get his pack +together in good shape, and he took pride in strapping it on Westover's +shoulders, adjusting and readjusting it with care, and fastening it so +that all should be safe and snug. He lingered about at the risk of being +late for school, as if to see the last of the painter, and he waved his +hat to him when Westover looked back at the house from half down the +lane. Then he vanished, and Westover went slowly on till he reached +that corner of the orchard where the slanting gravestones of the family +burial-ground showed above the low wall. There, suddenly, a storm burst +upon him. The air rained apples, that struck him on the head, the back, +the side, and pelted in violent succession on his knapsack and canvases, +camp-stool and easel. He seemed assailed by four or five skilful +marksmen, whose missiles all told. + +When he could lift his face to look round he heard a shrill, accusing +voice, “Oh, Jeff Durgin!” and he saw another storm of apples fly through +the air toward the little Whitwell girl, who dodged and ran along the +road below and escaped in the direction of the schoolhouse. Then the +boy's face showed itself over the top of one of the gravestones, all +agrin with joy. He waited and watched Westover keep slowly on, as if +nothing had happened, and presently he let some apples fall from his +hands and walked slowly back to the house, with his dog at his heels. + +When Westover reached the level of the road and the shelter of the woods +near Whitwell's house, he unstrapped his load to see how much harm had +been done to his picture. He found it unhurt, and before he had got the +burden back again he saw Jeff Durgin leaping along the road toward the +school-house, whirling his satchel of books about his head and shouting +gayly to the girl, now hidden by the bushes at the other end of the +lane: “Cynthy! Oh, Cynthy! Wait for me! I want to tell you something!” + + + + +IX. + +Westover, received next spring the copy for an advertisement from Mrs. +Durgin, which she asked to have him put in some paper for her. She said +that her son Jackson had written it out, and Westover found it so well +written that he had scarcely to change the wording. It offered the best +of farm-board, with plenty of milk and eggs, berries and fruit, for +five dollars a week at Lion's Head Farm, and it claimed for the farm the +merit of the finest view of the celebrated Lion's Head Mountain. It +was signed, as her letter was signed, “Mrs. J. M. Durgin,” with her +post-office address, and it gave Westover as a reference. + +The letter was in the same handwriting as the advertisement, which he +took to be that of Jackson Durgin. It enclosed a dollar note to pay for +three insertions of the advertisement in the evening Transcript, and +it ended, almost casually: “I do not know as you have heard that my +husband, James Monroe Durgin, passed to spirit life this spring. My son +will help me to run the house.” + +This death could not move Westover more than it had apparently moved +the widow. During the three weeks he had passed under his roof, he had +scarcely exchanged three words with James Monroe Durgin, who remained to +him an impression of large, round, dull-blue eyes, a stubbly upper +lip, and cheeks and chin tagged with coarse, hay-colored beard. The +impression was so largely the impression that he had kept of the +dull-blue eyes and the gaunt, slanted figure of Andrew Jackson Durgin +that he could not be very distinct in his sense of which was now the +presence and which the absence. He remembered, with an effort, that the +son's beard was straw-colored, but he had to make no effort to recall +the robust effect of Mrs. Durgin and her youngest son. He wondered now, +as he had often wondered before, whether she knew of the final violence +which had avenged the boy for the prolonged strain of repression Jeff +had inflicted upon himself during Westover's stay at the farm. After +several impulses to go back and beat him, to follow him to school and +expose him to the teacher, to write to his mother and tell her of his +misbehavior, Westover had decided to do nothing. As he had come off +unhurt in person and property, he could afford to be more generously +amused than if he had suffered damage in either. The more he thought of +the incident, the more he was disposed to be lenient with the boy, +whom he was aware of having baffled and subdued by his superior wit and +virtue in perhaps intolerable measure. He could not quite make out +that it was an act of bad faith; there was no reason to think that the +good-natured things the fellow had done, the constant little offices of +zeal and friendliness, were less sincere than this violent outbreak. + +The letter from Lion's Head Farm brought back his three weeks there very +vividly, and made Westover wish he was going there for the summer. But +he was going over to France for an indefinite period of work in the only +air where he believed modern men were doing good things in the right +way. He W a sale in the winter, and he had sold pictures enough to +provide the means for this sojourn abroad; though his lion's Head +Mountain had not brought the two hundred and fifty or three hundred +dollars he had hoped for. It brought only a hundred and sixty; but the +time had almost come already when Westover thought it brought too much. +Now, the letter from Mrs. Durgin reminded him that he had never sent her +the photograph of the picture which he had promised her. He encased the +photograph at once, and wrote to her with many avowals of contrition for +his neglect, and strong regret that he was not soon to see the original +of the painting again. He paid a decent reverence to the bereavement +she had suffered, and he sent his regards to all, especially his comrade +Jeff, whom he advised to keep out of the apple-orchard. + +Five years later Westover came home in the first week of a gasping +August, whose hot breath thickened round the Cunarder before she got +half-way up the harbor. He waited only to see his pictures through the +custom-house, and then he left for the mountains. The mountains meant +Lion's Head for him, and eight hours after he was dismounting from the +train at a station on the road which had been pushed through on a new +line within four miles of the farm. It was called Lion's Head House now, +as he read on the side of the mountain-wagon which he saw waiting at the +platform, and he knew at a glance that it was Jeff Durgin who was coming +forward to meet him and take his hand-bag. + +The boy had been the prophecy of the man in even a disappointing degree. +Westover had fancied him growing up to the height of his father and +brother, but Jeff Durgin's stalwart frame was notable for strength +rather than height. He could not have been taller than his mother, whose +stature was above the standard of her sex, but he was massive without +being bulky. His chest was deep, his square shoulders broad, his +powerful legs bore him with a backward bulge of the calves that showed +through his shapely trousers; he caught up the trunks and threw them +into the baggage-wagon with a swelling of the muscles on his short, +thick arms which pulled his coat-sleeves from his heavy wrists and +broad, short hands. + +He had given one of these to Westover to shake when they met, but with +something conditional in his welcome, and with a look which was not so +much furtive as latent. The thatch of yellow hair he used to wear was +now cropped close to his skull, which was a sort of dun-color; and it +had some drops of sweat along the lighter edge where his hat had shaded +his forehead. He put his hat on the seat between himself and Westover, +and drove away from the station bareheaded, to cool himself after his +bout with the baggage, which was following more slowly in its wagon. +There was a good deal of it, and there were half a dozen people--women, +of course--going to Lion's Head House. Westover climbed to the place +beside Jeff to let them have the other two seats to themselves, and +to have a chance of talking; but the ladies had to be quieted in +their several anxieties concerning their baggage, and the letters and +telegrams they had sent about their rooms, before they settled down to +an exchange of apprehensions among themselves, and left Jeff Durgin free +to listen to Westover. + +“I don't know but I ought to have telegraphed you that I was coming,” + Westover said; “but I couldn't realize that you were doing things on the +hotel scale. Perhaps you won't have room for me?” + +“Guess we can put you up,” said Jeff. + +“No chance of getting my old room, I suppose?” + +“I shouldn't wonder. If there's any one in it, I guess mother could +change 'em.” + +“Is that so?” asked Westover, with a liking for being liked, which his +tone expressed. “How is your mother?” + +Jeff seemed to think a moment before he answered: + +“Just exactly the same.” + +“A little older?” + +“Not as I can see.” + +“Does she hate keeping a hotel as badly as she expected?” + +“That's what she says,” answered Jeff, with a twinkle. All the time, +while he was talking with Westover, he was breaking out to his horses, +which he governed with his voice, trotting them up hill and down, and +walking them on the short, infrequent levels, in the mountain fashion. + +Westover almost feared to ask: “And how is Jackson?” + +“First-rate--that is, for him. He's as well as ever he was, I guess, +and he don't appear a day older. You've changed some,” said Jeff, with a +look round at Westover. + +“Yes; I'm twenty-nine now, and I wear a heavier beard.” Westover noticed +that Jeff was clean shaved of any sign of an approaching beard, and +artistically he rejoiced in the fellow's young, manly beauty, which was +very regular and sculpturesque. “You're about eighteen?” + +“Nearer nineteen.” + +“Is Jackson as much interested in the other world as he used to be?” + +“Spirits?” + +“Yes.” + +“I guess he keeps it up with Mr. Whitwell. He don't say much about it +at home. He keeps all the books, and helps mother run the house. She +couldn't very well get along without him.” + +“And where do you come in?” + +“Well, I look after the transportation,” said Jeff, with a nod toward +his horses--“when I'm at home, that is. I've been at the Academy in +Lovewell the last three winters, and that means a good piece of the +summer, too, first and last. But I guess I'll let mother talk to you +about that.” + +“All right,” said Westover. “What I don't know about education isn't +worth knowing.” + +Jeff laughed, and said to the off horse, which seemed to know that he +was meant: “Get up, there!” + +“And Cynthia? Is Cynthia at home?” Westover asked. + +“Yes; they're all down in the little wood-colored house yet. Cynthia +teaches winters, and summers she helps mother. She has charge of the +dining-room.” + +“Does Franky cry as much as ever?” + +“No, Frank's a fine boy. He's in the house, too. Kind of bell-boy.” + +“And you haven't worked Mr. Whitwell in anywhere?” + +“Well, he talks to the ladies, and takes parties of 'em +mountain-climbing. I guess we couldn't get along without Mr. Whitwell. +He talks religion to 'em.” He cast a mocking glance at Westover over his +shoulder. “Women seem to like religion, whether they belong to church or +not.” + +Westover laughed and asked: “And Fox? How's Fox?” + +“Well,” said Jeff, “we had to give Fox away. He was always cross with +the boarders' children. My brother was on from Colorado, and he took Fox +back with him.” + +“I didn't suppose,” said Westover, “that I should have been sorry to +miss Fox. But I guess I shall be.” + +Jeff seemed to enjoy the implication of his words. “He wasn't a bad dog. +He was stupid.” + +When they arrived at the foot of the lane, mounting to the farm, +Westover saw what changes had been made in the house. There were large +additions, tasteless and characterless, but giving the rooms that were +needed. There was a vulgar modernity in the new parts, expressed with a +final intensity in the four-light windows, which are esteemed the last +word of domestic architecture in the country. Jeff said nothing as +they approached the house, but Westover said: “Well, you've certainly +prospered. You're quite magnificent.” + +They reached the old level in front of the house, artificially widened +out of his remembrance, with a white flag-pole planted at its edge, and +he looked up at the front of the house, which was unchanged, except that +it had been built a story higher back of the old front, and discovered +the window of his old room. He could hardly wait to get his greetings +over with Mrs. Durgin and Jackson, who both showed a decorous pleasure +and surprise at his coming, before he asked: + +“And could you let me have my own room, Mrs. Durgin?” + +“Why, yes,” she said, “if you don't want something a little nicer.” + +“I don't believe you've got anything nicer,” Westover said. + +“All right, if you think so,” she retorted. “You can have the old room, +anyway.” + + + + +X. + +Westover could not have said he felt very much at home on his first +sojourn at the farm, or that he had cared greatly for the Durgins. +But now he felt very much at home, and as if he were in the hands of +friends. + +It was toward the close of the afternoon that he arrived, and he went +in promptly to the meal that was served shortly after. He found that the +farm-house had not evolved so far in the direction of a hotel as to have +reached the stage of a late dinner. It was tea that he sat down to, +but when he asked if there were not something hot, after listening to +a catalogue of the cold meats, the spectacled waitress behind his chair +demanded, with the air of putting him on his honor: + +“You among those that came this afternoon?” + +Westover claimed to be of the new arrivals. + +“Well, then, you can have steak or chops and baked potatoes.” + +He found the steak excellent, though succinct, and he looked round in +the distinction it conferred upon him, on the older guests, who were +served with cold ham, tongue, and corned-beef. He had expected to +be appointed his place by Cynthia Whitwell, but Jeff came to the +dining-room with him and showed him to the table he occupied, with an +effect of doing him special credit. + +From his impressions of the berries, the cream, the toast, and the tea, +as well as the steak, he decided that on the gastronomic side there +could be no question but the Durgins knew how to keep a hotel; and his +further acquaintance with the house and its appointments confirmed him +in his belief. All was very simple, but sufficient; and no guest could +have truthfully claimed that he was stinted in towels, in water, in +lamp-light, in the quantity or quality of bedding, in hooks for clothes, +or wardrobe or bureau room. Westover made Mrs. Durgin his sincere +compliments on her success as they sat in the old parlor, which she had +kept for herself much in its former state, and she accepted them with +simple satisfaction. + +“But I don't know as I should ever had the courage to try it if it +hadn't been for you happening along just when you did,” she said. + +“Then I'm the founder of your fortunes?” + +“If you want to call them fortunes. We don't complain It's been a fight, +but I guess we've got the best of it. The house is full, and we're +turnin' folks away. I guess they can't say that at the big hotels they +used to drive over from to see Lion's Head at the farm.” She gave a low, +comfortable chuckle, and told Westover of the struggle they had made. +It was an interesting story and pathetic, like all stories of human +endeavor the efforts of the most selfish ambition have something of this +interest; and the struggle of the Durgins had the grace of the wish to +keep their home. + +“And is Jeff as well satisfied as the rest?” Westover asked, after other +talk and comment on the facts. + +“Too much so,” said Mrs. Durgin. “I should like to talk with you about +Jeff, Mr. Westover; you and him was always such friends.” + +“Yes,” said Westover; “I shall be glad if I can be of use to you.” + +“Why, it's just this. I don't see why Jeff shouldn't do something +besides keep a hotel.” + +Westover's eyes wandered to the photograph of his painting of Lion's +Head which hung over the mantelpiece, in what he felt to be the place of +the greatest honor in the whole house, and a sudden fear came upon him +that perhaps Jeff had developed an artistic talent in the belief of his +family. But he waited silently to hear. + +“We did think that before we got through the improvements last spring a +year ago we should have to get the savings-bank to put a mortgage on the +place; but we had just enough to start the season with, and we thought +we would try to pull through. We had a splendid season, and made money, +and this year we're doin' so well that I ain't afraid for the future any +more, and I want to give Jeff a chance in the world. I want he should go +to college.” + +Westover felt all the boldness of the aspiration, but it was at least +not in the direction of art. “Wouldn't you rather miss him in the +management?” + +“We should, some. But he would be here the best part of the summer, in +his vacations, and Jackson and I are full able to run the house without +him.” + +“Jackson seems very well,” said Westover, evasively. + +“He's better. He's only thirty-four years old. His father lived to be +sixty, and he had the same kind. Jeff tell you he had been at Lovewell +Academy?” + +“Yes; he did.” + +“He done well there. All his teachers that he ever had,” Mrs. Durgin +went on, with the mother-pride that soon makes itself tiresome to the +listener, “said Jeff done well at school when he had a mind to, and at +the Academy he studied real hard. I guess,” said Mrs. Durgin, with her +chuckle, “that he thought that was goin' to be the end of it. One thing, +he had to keep up with Cynthy, and that put him on his pride. You seen +Cynthy yet?” + +“No. Jeff told me she was in charge of the diningroom.” + +“I guess I'm in charge of the whole house,” said Mrs. Durgin. “Cynthy's +the housekeeper, though. She's a fine girl, and a smart girl,” said Mrs. +Durgin, with a visible relenting from some grudge, “and she'll do well +wherever you put her. She went to the Academy the first two winters Jeff +did. We've about scooped in the whole Whitwell family. Franky's here, +and his father's--well, his father's kind of philosopher to the lady +boarders.” Mrs. Durgin laughed, and Westover laughed with her. “Yes, I +want Jeff should go to college, and I want he should be a lawyer.” + +Westover did not find that he had anything useful to say to this; so he +said: “I've no doubt it's better than being a painter.” + +“I'm not so sure; three hundred dollars for a little thing like that.” + She indicated the photograph of his Lion's Head, and she was evidently +so proud of it that he reserved for the moment the truth as to the +price he had got for the painting. “I was surprised when you sent me a +photograph full as big. I don't let every one in here, but a good many +of the ladies are artists themselves-amateurs, I guess--and first and +last they all want to see it. I guess they'll all want to see you, Mr. +Westover. They'll be wild, as they call it, when they know you're in the +house. Yes, I mean Jeff shall go to college.” + +“Bowdoin or Dartmouth?” Westover suggested. + +“Well, I guess you'll think I'm about as forth-putting as I was when +I wanted you to give me a three-hundred-dollar picture for a week's +board.” + +“I only got a hundred and sixty, Mrs. Durgin,” said Westover, +conscientiously. + +“Well, it's a shame. Any rate, three hundred's the price to all my +boarders. My, if I've told that story once, I guess I've told it fifty +times!” + +Mrs. Durgin laughed at herself jollily, and Westover noted how +prosperity had changed her. It had freed her tongue, it has brightened +her humor, it had cheered her heart; she had put on flesh, and her +stalwart frame was now a far greater bulk than he remembered. + +“Well, there,” she said, “the long and the short of it is, I want Jeff +should go to Harvard.” + +He commanded himself to say: “I don't see why he shouldn't.” + +Mrs. Durgin called out, “Come in, Jackson,” and Westover looked round +and saw the elder son like a gaunt shadow in the doorway. “I've just got +where I've told Mr. Westover where I want Jeff should go. It don't seem +to have ca'd him off his feet any, either.” + +“I presume,” said Jackson, coming in and sitting lankly down in the +feather-cushioned rocking-chair which his mother pushed toward him with +her foot, “that the expense would be more at Harvard than it would at +the other colleges.” + +“If you want the best you got to pay for it,” said Mrs. Durgin. + +“I suppose it would cost more,” Westover answered Jackson's conjecture. +“I really don't know much about it. One hears tremendous stories at +Boston of the rate of living among the swell students in Cambridge. +People talk of five thousand a year, and that sort of thing.” Mrs. +Durgin shut her lips, after catching her breath. “But I fancy that +it's largely talk. I have a friend whose son went through Harvard for a +thousand a year, and I know that many fellows do it for much less.” + +“I guess we can manage to let Jeff have a thousand a year,” said Mrs. +Durgin, proudly, “and not scrimp very much, either.” + +She looked at her elder son, who said: “I don't believe but what we +could. It's more of a question with me what sort of influence Jeff would +come under there. I think he's pretty much spoiled here.” + +“Now, Jackson!” said his mother. + +“I've heard,” said Westover, “that Harvard takes the nonsense out of +a man. I can't enter into what you say, and it isn't my affair; but in +regard to influence at Harvard, it depends upon the set Jeff is thrown +with or throws himself with. So, at least, I infer from what I've heard +my friend say of his son there. There are hard-working sets, loafing +sets, and fast sets; and I suppose it isn't different at Harvard in such +matters from other colleges.” + +Mrs. Durgin looked a little grave. “Of course,” she said, “we don't +know anybody at Cambridge, except some ladies that boarded with us one +summer, and I shouldn't want to ask any favor of them. The trouble would +be to get Jeff started right.” + +Westover surmised a good many things, but in the absence of any +confidences from the Durgins he could not tell just how much Jackson +meant in saying that Jeff was pretty much spoiled, or how little. At +first, from Mrs. Durgin's prompt protest, he fancied that Jackson meant +that the boy had been over-indulged by his mother: “I understand,” he +said, in default of something else to say, “that the requirements at +Harvard are pretty severe.” + +“He's passed his preliminary examinations,” said Jackson, with a touch +of hauteur, “and I guess he can enter this fall if we should so decide. +He'll have some conditions, prob'ly, but none but what he can work off, +I guess.” + +“Then, if you wish to have him go to college, by all means let him go to +Harvard, I should say. It's our great university and our oldest. I'm +not a college man myself; but, if I were, I should wish to have been a +Harvard man. If Jeff has any nonsense in him, it will take it out; and +I don't believe there's anything in Harvard, as Harvard, to make him +worse.” + +“That's what we both think,” said Jackson. + +“I've heard,” Westover continued, and he rose and stood while he spoke, +“that Harvard's like the world. A man gets on there on the same terms +that he gets on in the world. He has to be a man, and he'd better be a +gentleman.” + +Mrs. Durgin still looked serious. “Have you come back to Boston for good +now? Do you expect to be there right along?” + +“I've taken a studio there. Yes, I expect to be in Boston now. I've +taken to teaching, and I fancy I can make a living. If Jeff comes to +Cambridge, and I can be of any use--” + +“We should be ever so much obliged to you,” said his mother, with an air +of great relief. + +“Not at all. I shall be very glad. Your mountain air is drugging me, +Mrs. Durgin. I shall have to say good-night, or I shall tumble asleep +before I get upstairs. Oh, I can find the way, I guess; this part of +the house seems the same.” He got away from them, and with the lamp that +Jackson gave him found his way to his room. A few moments later some +one knocked at his door, and a boy stood there with a pitcher. “Some +ice-water, Mr. Westover?” + +“Why, is that you, Franky? I'm glad to see you again. How are you?” + +“I'm pretty well,” said the boy, shyly. He was a very handsome little +fellow of distinctly dignified presence, and Westover was aware at once +that here was not a subject for patronage. “Is there anything else you +want, Mr. Westover? Matches, or soap, or anything?” He put the pitcher +down and gave a keen glance round the room. + +“No, everything seems to be here, Frank,” said Westover. + +“Well, good-night,” said the boy, and he slipped out, quietly closing +the door after him. + +Westover pushed up his window and looked at Lion's Head in the +moonlight. It slumbered as if with the sleep of centuries-austere, +august. The moon-rays seemed to break and splinter on the outline of the +lion-shape, and left all the mighty mass black below. + +In the old porch under his window Westover heard whispering. Then, “You +behave yourself, Jeff Durgin!” came in a voice which could be no other +than Cynthia Whitwell's, and Jeff Durgin's laugh followed. + +He saw the girl in the morning. She met him at the door of the +dining-room, and he easily found in her shy, proud manner, and her pure, +cold beauty, the temperament and physiognomy of the child he remembered. +She was tall and slim, and she held herself straight without stiffness; +her face was fine, with a straight nose, and a decided chin, and a mouth +of the same sweetness which looked from her still, gray eyes; her hair, +of the average brown, had a rough effect of being quickly tossed into +form, which pleased him; as she slipped down the room before him to +place him at table he saw that she was, as it were, involuntarily, +unwillingly graceful. She made him think of a wild sweetbrier, of a +hermit-thrush; but, if there were this sort of poetic suggestion in +Cynthia's looks, her acts were of plain and honest prose, such as giving +Westover the pleasantest place and the most intelligent waitress in the +room. + +He would have liked to keep her in talk a moment, but she made +business-like despatch of all his allusions to the past, and got herself +quickly away. Afterward she came back to him, with the effect of having +forced herself to come, and the color deepened in her cheeks while she +stayed. + +She seemed glad of his being there, but helpless against the instincts +or traditions that forbade her to show her pleasure in his presence. +Her reticence became almost snubbing in its strictness when he asked her +about her school-teaching in the winter; but he found that she taught at +the little school-house at the foot of the hill, and lived at home with +her father. + +“And have you any bad boys that frighten little girls in your school?” + he asked, jocosely. + +“I don't know as I have,” she said, with a consciousness that flamed +into her cheeks. + +“Perhaps the boys have reformed?” Westover suggested. + +“I presume,” she said, stiffly, “that there's room for improvement +in every one,” and then, as if she were afraid he might take this +personally, she looked unhappy and tried to speak of other things. She +asked him if he did not see a great many changes at Lion's Head; he +answered, gravely, that he wished he could have found it just as he left +it, and then she must have thought she had gone wrong again, for she +left him in an embarrassment that was pathetic, but which was charming. + + + + +XI. + +After breakfast Westover walked out and saw Whitwell standing on the +grass in front of the house, beside the flagstaff. He suffered Westover +to make the first advances toward the renewal of their acquaintance, but +when he was sure of his friendly intention he responded with a cordial +openness which the painter had fancied wanting in his children. Whitwell +had not changed much. The most noticeable difference was the compact +phalanx of new teeth which had replaced the staggering veterans of +former days, and which displayed themselves in his smile of relenting. +There was some novelty of effect also in an arrangement of things in his +hat-band. At first Westover thought they were fishhooks and artificial +flies, such as the guides wear in the Adirondacks to advertise their +calling about the hotel offices and the piazzas. But another glance +showd him that they were sprays and wild flowers of various sorts, with +gay mosses and fungi and some stems of Indian-pipe. + +Whitwell seemed pleased that these things should have caught Westover's +eye. He said, almost immediately: “Lookin' at my almanac? This is one +of our field-days; we have 'em once a week; and I like to let the ladies +see beforehand what nature's got on the bill for 'em, in the woods and +pastur's.” + +“It's a good idea,” said Westover, “and it's fresh and picturesque.” + Whitwell laughed for pleasure. + +“They told me what a consolation you were to the ladies, with your walks +and talks.” + +“Well, I try to give 'em something to think about,” said Whitwell. + +“But why do you confine your ministrations to one sex?” + +“I don't, on purpose. But it's the only sex here, three-fourths of the +time. Even the children are mostly all girls. When the husbands come up +Saturday nights, they don't want to go on a tramp Sundays. They want +to lay off and rest. That's about how it is. Well, you see some changes +about Lion's Head, I presume?” he asked, with what seemed an impersonal +pleasure in them. + +“I should rather have found the old farm. But I must say I'm glad to +find such a good hotel.” + +“Jeff and his mother made their brags to you?” said Whitwell, with a +kind of amiable scorn. “I guess if it wa'n't for Cynthy she wouldn't +know where she was standin', half the time. It don't matter where Jeff +stands, I guess. Jackson's the best o' the lot, now the old man's +gone.” There was no one by at the moment to hear these injuries except +Westover, but Whitwell called them out with a frankness which was +perhaps more carefully adapted to the situation than it seemed. Westover +made no attempt to parry them formally; but he offered some generalities +in extenuation of the unworthiness of the Durgins, which Whitwell did +not altogether refuse. + +“Oh, it's all right. Old woman talk to you about Jeff's going to +college? I thought so. Wants to make another Dan'el Webster of him. +Guess she can's far forth as Dan'el's graduatin' went.” Westover +tried to remember how this had been with the statesman, but could not. +Whitwell added, with intensifying irony so of look and tone: “Guess +the second Dan'el won't have a chance to tear his degree up; guess he +wouldn't ever b'en ready to try for it if it had depended on him. +They don't keep any record at Harvard, do they, of the way fellows are +prepared for their preliminary examinations?” + +“I don't quite know what you mean,” said Westover. + +“Oh, nothin'. You get a chance some time to ask Jeff who done most of +his studyin' for him at the Academy.” + +This hint was not so darkling but Westover could understand that +Whitwell attributed Jeff's scholarship to the help of Cynthia, but +he would not press him to an open assertion of the fact. There was +something painful in it to him; it had the pathos which perhaps most of +the success in the world would reveal if we could penetrate its outside. + +He was silent, and Whitwell left the point. “Well,” he concluded, +“what's goin' on in them old European countries?” + +“Oh, the old thing,” said Westover. “But I can't speak for any except +France, very well.” + +“What's their republic like, over there? Ours? See anything of it, how +it works?” + +“Well, you know,” said Westover, “I was working so hard myself all the +time--” + +“Good!” Whitwell slapped his leg. Westover saw that he had on long +India-rubber boots, which came up to his knees, and he gave a wayward +thought to the misery they would be on an August day to another man; but +Whitwell was probably insensible to any discomfort from them. “When a +man's mindin' his own business any government's good, I guess. But I +should like to prowl round some them places where they had the worst +scenes of the Revolution, Ever been in the Place de la Concorde?” + Whitwell gave it the full English pronunciation. + +“I passed through it nearly every day.” + +“I want to know! And that column that they, pulled down in the Commune +that had that little Boney on it--see that?” + +“In the Place Vendome?” + +“Yes, Plass Vonndome.” + +“Oh yes. You wouldn't know it had ever been down.” + +“Nor the things it stood for?” + +“As to that, I can't be so sure.” + +“Well, it's funny,” said the philosopher, “how the world seems to always +come out at the same hole it went in at!” He paused, with his mouth +open, as if to let the notion have full effect with Westover. + +The painter said: “And you're still in the old place, Mr. Whitwell?” + +“Yes, I like my own house. They've wanted me to come up here often +enough, but I'm satisfied where I am. It's quiet down there, and, when +I get through for the day, I can read. And I like to keep my family +together. Cynthy and Frank always sleep at home, and Jombateeste eats +with me. You remember Jombateeste?” + +Westover had to say that he did not. + +“Well, I don't know as you did see him much. He was that Canuck I had +helpin' me clear that piece over on Lion's Head for the pulp-mill; +pulp-mill went all to thunder, and I never got a cent. And sometimes +Jackson comes down with his plantchette, and we have a good time.” + +“Jackson still believes in the manifestations?” + +“Yes. But he's never developed much himself. He can't seem to do much +without the plantchette. We've had up some of them old philosophers +lately. We've had up Socrates.” + +“Is that so? It must be very interesting.” + +Whitwell did not answer, and Westover saw his eye wander. He looked +round. Several ladies were coming across the grass toward him from the +hotel, lifting their skirts and tiptoeing through the dew. They called +to him, “Good-morning, Mr. Whitwell!” and “Are you going up Lion's +Head to-day?” and “Don't you think it will rain?”--“Guess not,” said +Whitwell, with a fatherly urbanity and an air of amusement at the +anxieties of the sex which seemed habitual to him. He waited tranquilly +for them to come up, and then asked, with a wave of his hand toward +Westover: “Acquainted with Mr. Westover, the attist?” He named each of +them, and it would have been no great vanity in Westover to think they +had made their little movement across the grass quite as much in the +hope of an introduction to him as in the wish to consult Whitwell about +his plans. + +The painter found himself the centre of an agreeable excitement with all +the ladies in the house. For this it was perhaps sufficient to be a man. +To be reasonably young and decently good-looking, to be an artist, +and an artist not unknown, were advantages which had the splendor of +superfluity. + +He liked finding himself in the simple and innocent American +circumstance again, and he was not sorry to be confronted at once with +one of the most characteristic aspects of our summer. He could read +in the present development of Lion's Head House all the history of its +evolution from the first conception of farm-board, which sufficed the +earliest comers, to its growth in the comforts and conveniences which +more fastidious tastes and larger purses demanded. Before this point was +reached, the boarders would be of a good and wholesome sort, but they +would be people of no social advantages, and not of much cultivation, +though they might be intelligent; they would certainly not be +fashionable; five dollars a week implied all that, except in the case +of some wandering artist or the family of some poor young professor. But +when the farm became a boarding-house and called itself a hotel, as at +present with Lion's Head House, and people paid ten dollars a week, or +twelve for transients, a moment of its character was reached which could +not be surpassed when its prosperity became greater and its inmates more +pretentious. In fact, the people who can afford to pay ten dollars a +week for summer board, and not much more, are often the best of the +American people, or, at least, of the New England people. They may not +know it, and those who are richer may not imagine it. They are apt to be +middle-aged maiden ladies from university towns, living upon carefully +guarded investments; young married ladies with a scant child or two, +and needing rest and change of air; college professors with nothing but +their modest salaries; literary men or women in the beginning of their +tempered success; clergymen and their wives away from their churches in +the larger country towns or the smaller suburbs of the cities; here +and there an agreeable bachelor in middle life, fond of literature and +nature; hosts of young and pretty girls with distinct tastes in art, +and devoted to the clever young painter who leads them to the sources +of inspiration in the fields and woods. Such people are refined, humane, +appreciative, sympathetic; and Westover, fresh from the life abroad +where life is seldom so free as ours without some stain, was glad to +find himself in the midst of this unrestraint, which was so sweet and +pure. He had seen enough of rich people to know that riches seldom +bought the highest qualities, even among his fellow-countrymen who +suppose that riches can do everything, and the first aspects of society +at Lion's Head seemed to him Arcadian. There really proved to be a +shepherd or two among all that troop of shepherdesses, old and young; +though it was in the middle of the week, remote alike from the Saturday +of arrivals and the Monday of departures. To be sure, there was none +quite so young as himself, except Jeff Durgin, who was officially +exterior to the social life. + +The painter who gave lessons to the ladies was already a man of forty, +and he was strongly dragoned round by a wife almost as old, who had +taken great pains to secure him for herself, and who worked him to far +greater advantage in his profession than he could possibly have worked +himself: she got him orders; sold his pictures, even in Boston, where +they never buy American pictures; found him pupils, and kept the boldest +of these from flirting with him. Westover, who was so newly from Paris, +was able to console him with talk of the salons and ateliers, which he +had not heard from so directly in ten years. After the first inevitable +moment of jealousy, his wife forgave Westover when she found that he did +not want pupils, and she took a leading part in the movement to have +him read Browning at a picnic, organized by the ladies shortly after he +came. + + + + +XII. + +The picnic was held in Whitwell's Clearing, on the side of Lion's Head, +where the moss, almost as white as snow, lay like belated drifts among +the tall, thin grass which overran the space opened by the axe, and +crept to the verge of the low pines growing in the shelter of the +loftier woods. It was the end of one of Whitwell's “Tramps Home to +Nature,” as he called his walks and talks with the ladies, and on this +day Westover's fellow-painter had added to his lessons in woodlore the +claims of art, intending that his class should make studies of various +bits in the clearing, and should try to catch something of its peculiar +charm. He asked Westover what he thought of the notion, and Westover +gave it his approval, which became enthusiastic when he saw the place. +He found in it the melancholy grace, the poignant sentiment of ruin +which expresses itself in some measure wherever man has invaded nature +and then left his conquest to her again. In Whitwell's Clearing the +effect was intensified by the approach on the fading wood road, which +the wagons had made in former days when they hauled the fallen timber +to the pulp-mill. In places it was so vague and faint as to be hardly a +trail; in others, where the wheel-tracks remained visible, the trees +had sent out a new growth of lower branches in the place of those lopped +away, and almost forbade the advance of foot-passengers. The ladies said +they did not see how Jeff was ever going to get through with the wagon, +and they expressed fears for the lunch he was bringing, which seemed +only too well grounded. + +But Whitwell, who was leading them on, said: “You let a Durgin alone to +do a thing when he's made up his mind to it. I guess you'll have your +lunch all right;” and by the time that they had got enough of Browning +they heard the welcome sound of wheels crashing upon dead boughs and +swishing through the underbrush, and, in the pauses of these pleasant +noises, the voice of Jeff Durgin encouraging his horses. The children of +the party broke away to meet him, and then he came in sight ahead of his +team, looking strong and handsome in his keeping with the scene: Before +he got within hearing, the ladies murmured a hymn of praise to his type +of beauty; they said he looked like a young Hercules, and Westover owned +with an inward smile that Jeff had certainly made the best of himself +for the time being. He had taken a leaf from the book of the summer +folks; his stalwart calves revealed themselves in thick, ribbed +stockings; he wore knickerbockers and a Norfolk jacket of corduroy; he +had style as well as beauty, and he had the courage of his clothes and +looks. Westover was still in the first surprise of the American facts, +and he wondered just what part in the picnic Jeff was to bear socially. +He was neither quite host nor guest; but no doubt in the easy play +of the life, which Westover was rather proud to find so charming, the +question would solve itself rationally and gracefully. + +“Where do you want the things?” the young fellow asked of the company at +large, as he advanced upon them from the green portals of the roadway, +pulling off his soft wool hat, and wiping his wet forehead with his +blue-bordered white handkerchief. + +“Oh, right here, Jeff!” The nimblest of the nymphs sprang to her feet +from the lounging and crouching circle about Westover. She was a young +nymph no longer, but with a daughter not so much younger than herself as +to make the contrast of her sixteen years painful. Westover recognized +the officious, self-approving kind of the woman, but he admired the +brisk efficiency with which she had taken possession of the affair from +the beginning and inspired every one to help, in strict subordination to +herself. + +When the cloths were laid on the smooth, elastic moss, and the meal +was spread, she heaped a plate without suffering any interval in her +activities. + +“I suppose you've got to go back to your horses, Jeff, and you shall be +the first served,” she said, and she offered him the plate with a bright +smile and friendly grace, which were meant to keep him from the hurt of +her intention. + +Jeff did not offer to take the plate which she raised to him from where +she was kneeling, but looked down at her with perfect intelligence. “I +guess I don't want anything,” he said, and turned and walked away into +the woods. + +The ill-advised woman remained kneeling for a moment with her +ingratiating smile hardening on her face, while the sense of her blunder +petrified the rest. She was the first to recover herself, and she said, +with a laugh that she tried to make reckless, “Well, friends, I suppose +the rest of you are hungry; I know I am,” and she began to eat. + +The others ate, too, though their appetites might well have been +affected by the diplomatic behavior of Whitwell. He would not take +anything, just at present, he said, and got his long length up from the +root of a tree where he had folded it down. “I don't seem to care much +for anything in the middle of the day; breakfast's my best meal,” and he +followed Jeff off into the woods. + +“Really,” said the lady, “what did they expect?” But the question was so +difficult that no one seemed able to make the simple answer. + +The incident darkened the day and spoiled its pleasure; it cast a +lessening shadow into the evening when the guests met round the fire in +the large, ugly new parlor at the hotel. + +The next morning the ladies assembled again on the piazza to decide what +should be done with the beautiful day before them. Whitwell stood at the +foot of the flag-staff with one hand staying his person against it, like +a figure posed in a photograph to verify proportions in the different +features of a prospect. + +The heroine of the unhappy affair of the picnic could not forbear +authorizing herself to invoke his opinion at a certain point of the +debate, and “Mr. Whitwell,” she called to him, “won't you please come +here a moment?” + +Whitwell slowly pulled himself across the grass to the group, and at +the same moment, as if she had been waiting for him to be present, Mrs. +Durgin came out of the office door and advanced toward the ladies. + +“Mrs. Marven,” she said, with the stony passivity which the ladies used +to note in her when they came over to Lion's Head Farm in the tally-hos, +“the stage leaves here at two o'clock to get the down train at three. +I want you should have your trunks ready to go on the wagon a little +before two.” + +“You want I should have my--What do you mean, Mrs. Durgin?” + +“I want your rooms.” + +“You want my rooms?” + +Mrs. Durgin did not answer. She let her steadfast look suffice; and Mrs. +Marven went on in a rising flutter: “Why, you can't have my rooms! I +don't understand you. I've taken my rooms for the whole of August, and +they are mine; and--” + +“I have got to have your rooms,” said Mrs. Durgin. + +“Very well, then, I won't give them up,” said the lady. “A bargain's a +bargain, and I have your agreement--” + +“If you're not out of your rooms by two o'clock, your things will be +put out; and after dinner to-day you will not eat another bite under my +roof.” + +Mrs. Durgin went in, and it remained for the company to make what they +could of the affair. Mrs. Marven did not wait for the result. She was +not a dignified person, but she rose with hauteur and whipped away to +her rooms, hers no longer, to make her preparations. She knew at least +how to give her going the effect of quitting the place with disdain and +abhorrence. + +The incident of her expulsion was brutal, but it was clearly meant to be +so. It made Westover a little sick, and he would have liked to pity Mrs. +Marven more than he could. The ladies said that Mrs. Durgin's behavior +was an outrage, and they ought all to resent it by going straight to +their own rooms and packing their things and leaving on the same stage +with Mrs. Marven. None of them did so, and their talk veered around to +something extenuating, if not justifying, Mrs. Durgin's action. + +“I suppose,” one of them said, “that she felt more indignant about it +because she has been so very good to Mrs. Marven, and her daughter, too. +They were both sick on her hands here for a week after they came, first +one and then the other, and she looked after them and did for them like +a mother.” + +“And yet,” another lady suggested, “what could Mrs. Marven have done? +What did she do? He wasn't asked to the picnic, and I don't see why he +should have been treated as a guest. He was there, purely and simply, to +bring the things and take them away. And, besides, if there is anything +in distinctions, in differences, if we are to choose who is to associate +with us--or our daughters--” + +“That is true,” the ladies said, in one form or another, with the tone +of conviction; but they were not so deeply convinced that they did not +want a man's opinion, and they all looked at Westover. + +He would not respond to their look, and the lady who had argued for Mrs. +Marven had to ask: “What do you think, Mr. Westover?” + +“Ah, it's a difficult question,” he said. “I suppose that as long as one +person believes himself or herself socially better than another, it must +always be a fresh problem what to do in every given case.” + +The ladies said they supposed so, and they were forced to make what +they could of wisdom in which they might certainly have felt a want of +finality. + +Westover went away from them in a perplexed mind which was not +simplified by the contempt he had at the bottom of all for something +unmanly in Jeff, who had carried his grievance to his mother like a +slighted boy, and provoked her to take up arms for him. + +The sympathy for Mrs. Marven mounted again when it was seen that she did +not come to dinner, or permit her daughter to do so, and when it became +known later that she had refused for both the dishes sent to their +rooms. Her farewells to the other ladies, when they gathered to see +her off on the stage, were airy rather than cheery; there was almost +a demonstration in her behalf, but Westover was oppressed by a kind of +inherent squalor in the incident. + +At night he responded to a knock which he supposed that of Frank +Whitwell with ice-water, and Mrs. Durgin came into his room and sat down +in one of his two chairs. “Mr. Westover,” she said, “if you knew all I +had done for that woman and her daughter, and how much she had pretended +to think of us all, I don't believe you'd be so ready to judge me.” + +“Judge you!” cried Westover. “Bless my soul, Mrs. Durgin! I haven't said +a word that could be tormented into the slightest censure.” + +“But you think I done wrong?” + +“I have not been at all able to satisfy myself on that point, Mrs. +Durgin. I think it's always wrong to revenge one's self.” + +“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Mrs. Durgin, humbly; and the tears came +into her eyes. “I got the tray ready with my own hands that was sent to +her room; but she wouldn't touch it. I presume she didn't like having a +plate prepared for her! But I did feel sorry for her. She a'n't over and +above strong, and I'm afraid she'll be sick; there a'n't any rest'rant +at our depot.” + +Westover fancied this a fit mood in Mrs. Durgin for her further +instruction, and he said: “And if you'll excuse me, Mrs. Durgin, I don't +think what you did was quite the way to keep a hotel.” + +More tears flashed into Mrs. Durgin's eyes, but they were tears of wrath +now. “I would 'a' done it,” she said, “if I thought every single one of +'em would 'a' left the house the next minute, for there a'n't one that +has the first word to say against me, any other way. It wa'n't that I +cared whether she thought my son was good enough to eat with her or not; +I know what I think, and that's enough for me. He wa'n't invited to the +picnic, and he a'n't one to put himself forward. If she didn't want him +to stay, all she had to do was to do nothin'. But to make him up a plate +before everybody, and hand it to him to eat with the horses, like a +tramp or a dog--” Mrs. Durgin filled to the throat with her wrath, and +the sight of her made Westover keenly unhappy. + +“Yes, yes,” he said, “it was a miserable business.” He could not help +adding: “If Jeff could have kept it to himself--but perhaps that wasn't +possible.” + +“Mr. Westover!” said Mrs. Durgin, sternly. “Do you think Jeff would come +to me, like a great crybaby, and complain of my lady boarders and the +way they used him? It was Mr. Whit'ell that let it out, or I don't know +as I should ever known about it.” + +“I'm glad Jeff didn't tell you,” said Westover, with a revulsion of good +feeling toward him. + +“He'd 'a' died first,” said his mother. “But Mr. Whit'ell done just +right all through, and I sha'n't soon forget it. Jeff's give me a proper +goin' over for what I done; both the boys have. But I couldn't help it, +and I should do just so again. All is, I wanted you should know just +what you was blamin' me for--” + +“I don't know that I blame you. I only wish you could have helped +it--managed some other way.” + +“I did try to get over it, and all I done was to lose a night's rest. +Then, this morning, when I see her settin' there so cool and mighty with +the boarders, and takin' the lead as usual, I just waited till she got +Whit'ell across, and nearly everybody was there that saw what she done +to Jeff, and then I flew out on her.” + +Westover could not suppress a laugh. “Well, Mrs. Durgin, your +retaliation was complete; it was dramatic.” + +“I don't know what you mean by that,” said Mrs. Durgin, rising and +resuming her self-control; she did not refuse herself a grim smile. “But +I guess she thought it was pretty perfect herself--or she will, when +she's able to give her mind to it. I'm sorry for her daughter; I never +had anything against her; or her mother, either, for that matter, +before. Franky look after you pretty well? I'll send him up with your +ice-water. Got everything else you want?” + +“I should have to invent a want if I wished to complain,” said Westover. + +“Well, I should like to have you do it. We can't ever do too much for +you. Well, good-night, Mr. Westover.” + +“Good'-night, Mrs. Durgin.” + + + + +XIII. + +Jeff Durgin entered Harvard that fall, with fewer conditions than most +students have to work off. This was set down to the credit of Lovewell +Academy, where he had prepared for the university; and some observers in +such matters were interested to note how thoroughly the old school in a +remote town had done its work for him. + +None who formed personal relations with him at that time conjectured +that he had done much of the work for himself, and even to Westover, +when Jeff came to him some weeks after his settlement in Cambridge, he +seemed painfully out of his element, and unamiably aware of it. For the +time, at least, he had lost the jovial humor, not too kindly always, +which largely characterized him, and expressed itself in sallies of +irony which were not so unkindly, either. The painter perceived that he +was on his guard against his own friendly interest; Jeff made haste to +explain that he came because he had told his mother that he would do +so. He scarcely invited a return of his visit, and he left Westover +wondering at the sort of vague rebellion against his new life which he +seemed to be in. The painter went out to see him in Cambridge, not long +after, and was rather glad to find him rooming with some other rustic +Freshman in a humble street running from the square toward the river; +for he thought Jeff must have taken his lodging for its cheapness, +out of regard to his mother's means. But Jeff was not glad to be found +there, apparently; he said at once that he expected to get a room in the +Yard the next year, and eat at Memorial Hall. He spoke scornfully of his +boarding-house as a place where they were all a lot of jays together; +and Westover thought him still more at odds with his environment than +he had before. But Jeff consented to come in and dine with him at his +restaurant, and afterward go to the theatre with him. + +When he came, Westover did not quite like his despatch of the +half-bottle of California claret served each of them with the Italian +table d'hote. He did not like his having already seen the play he +proposed; and he found some difficulty in choosing a play which Jeff had +not seen. It appeared then that he had been at the theatre two or three +times a week for the last month, and that it was almost as great a +passion with him as with Westover himself. He had become already a +critic of acting, with a rough good sense of it, and a decided opinion. +He knew which actors he preferred, and which actresses, better still. +It was some consolation for Westover to find that he mostly took an +admission ticket when he went to the theatre; but, though he could not +blame Jeff for showing his own fondness for it, he wished that he had +not his fondness. + +So far Jeff seemed to have spent very few of his evenings in Cambridge, +and Westover thought it would be well if he had some acquaintance there. +He made favor for him with a friendly family, who asked him to +dinner. They did it to oblige Westover, against their own judgment and +knowledge, for they said it was always the same with Freshmen; a single +act of hospitality finished the acquaintance. Jeff came, and he behaved +with as great indifference to the kindness meant him as if he were +dining out every night; he excused himself very early in the evening +on the ground that he had to go into Boston, and he never paid his +dinner-call. After that Westover tried to consider his whole duty to him +fulfilled, and not to trouble himself further. Now and then, however, +Jeff disappointed the expectation Westover had formed of him, by coming +to see him, and being apparently glad of the privilege. But he did not +make the painter think that he was growing in grace or wisdom, though he +apparently felt an increasing confidence in his own knowledge of life. + +Westover could only feel a painful interest tinged with amusement in +his grotesque misconceptions of the world where he had not yet begun to +right himself. Jeff believed lurid things of the society wholly unknown +to him; to his gross credulity, Boston houses, which at the worst were +the homes of a stiff and cold exclusiveness, were the scenes of riot +only less scandalous than the dissipation to which fashionable ladies +abandoned themselves at champagne suppers in the Back Bay hotels and on +their secret visits to the Chinese opium-joints in Kingston Street. + +Westover tried to make him see how impossible his fallacies were; but +he could perceive that Jeff thought him either wilfully ignorant or +helplessly innocent, and of far less authority than a barber who had the +entree of all these swell families as hair-dresser, and who corroborated +the witness of a hotel night-clerk (Jeff would not give their names) +to the depravity of the upper classes. He had to content himself with +saying: “I hope you will be ashamed some day of having believed such +rot. But I suppose it's something you've got to go through. You may take +my word for it, though? that it isn't going to do you any good. It's +going to do you harm, and that's why I hate to have you think it, for +your own sake. It can't hurt any one else.” + +What disgusted the painter most was that, with all his belief in +the wickedness of the fine world, it was clear that Jeff would +have willingly been of it; and he divined that if he had any strong +aspirations they were for society and for social acceptance. He had +fancied, when the fellow seemed to care so little for the studies of the +university, that he might come forward in its sports. Jeff gave more and +more the effect of tremendous strength in his peculiar physique, though +there was always the disappointment of not finding him tall. He was of +the middle height, but he was hewn out and squared upward massively. He +felt like stone to any accidental contact, and the painter brought away +a bruise from the mere brunt of his shoulders. He learned that Jeff was +a frequenter of the gymnasium, where his strength must have been known, +but he could not make out that he had any standing among the men who +went in for athletics. If Jeff had even this, the sort of standing in +college which he failed of would easily have been won, too. But he +had been falsely placed at the start, or some quality of his nature +neutralized other qualities that would have made him a leader in +college, and he remained one of the least forward men in it. Other jays +won favor and liking, and ceased to be jays; Jeff continued a jay. He +was not chosen into any of the nicer societies; those that he joined +when he thought they were swell he could not care for when he found they +were not. + +Westover came into a knowledge of the facts through his casual and +scarcely voluntary confidences, and he pitied him somewhat while he +blamed him a great deal more, without being able to help him at all. + +It appeared to him that the fellow had gone wrong more through ignorance +than perversity, and that it was a stubbornness of spirit rather than a +badness of heart that kept him from going right. He sometimes wondered +whether it was not more a baffled wish to be justified in his own esteem +than anything else that made him overvalue the things he missed. He knew +how such an experience as that with Mrs. Marven rankles in the heart of +youth, and will not cease to smart till some triumph in kind brines it +ease; but between the man of thirty and the boy of twenty there is a +gulf fixed, and he could not ask. He did not know that a college man +often goes wrong in his first year, out of no impulse that he can very +clearly account for himself, and then when he ceases to be merely of his +type and becomes more of his character, he pulls up and goes right. He +did not know how much Jeff had been with a set that was fast without +being fine. The boy had now and then a book in his hand when he came; +not always such a book as Westover could have wished, but still a book; +and to his occasional questions about how he was getting on with his +college work, Jeff made brief answers, which gave the notion that he was +not neglecting it. + +Toward the end of his first year he sent to Westover one night from a +station-house, where he had been locked up for breaking a street-lamp +in Boston. By his own showing he had not broken the lamp, or assisted, +except through his presence, at the misdeed of the tipsy students who +had done it. His breath betrayed that he had been drinking, too; but +otherwise he seemed as sober as Westover himself, who did not know +whether to augur well or ill for him from the proofs he had given before +of his ability to carry off a bottle of wine with a perfectly level +head. Jeff seemed to believe Westover a person of such influence that +he could secure his release at once, and he was abashed to find that +he must pass the night in the cell, where he conferred with Westover +through the bars. + +In the police court, where his companions were fined, the next morning, +he was discharged for want of evidence against him; but the university +authorities did not take the same view as the civil authorities. He +was suspended, and for the time he passed out of Westover's sight and +knowledge. + +He expected to find him at Lion's Head, where he went to pass the month +of August--in painting those pictures of the mountain which had in some +sort, almost in spite of him, become his specialty. But Mrs. Durgin +employed the first free moments after their meeting in explaining that +Jeff had got a chance to work his way to London on a cattle-steamer, and +had been abroad the whole summer. He had written home that the voyage +had been glorious, with plenty to eat and little to do; and he had made +favor with the captain for his return by the same vessel in September. +By other letters it seemed that he had spent the time mostly in England; +but he had crossed over into France for a fortnight, and had spent a +week in Paris. His mother read some passages from his letters aloud to +show Westover how Jeff was keeping his eyes open. His accounts of his +travel were a mixture of crude sensations in the presence of famous +scenes and objects of interest, hard-headed observation of the facts of +life, narrow-minded misconception of conditions, and wholly intelligent +and adequate study of the art of inn-keeping in city and country. + +Mrs. Durgin seemed to feel that there was some excuse due for the +relative quantity of the last. “He knows that's what I'd care for the +most; and Jeff a'n't one to forget his mother.” As if the word reminded +her, she added, after a moment: “We sha'n't any of us soon forget what +you done for Jeff--that time.” + +“I didn't do anything for him, Mrs. Durgin; I couldn't,” Westover +protested. + +“You done what you could, and I know that you saw the thing in the right +light, or you wouldn't 'a' tried to do anything. Jeff told me every word +about it. I know he was with a pretty harum-scarum crowd. But it was +a lesson to him; and I wa'n't goin' to have him come back here, right +away, and have folks talkin' about what they couldn't understand, after +the way the paper had it.” + +“Did it get into the papers?” + +“Mm.” Mrs. Durgin nodded. “And some dirty, sneakin' thing, here, wrote a +letter to the paper and told a passel o' lies about Jeff and all of us; +and the paper printed Jeff's picture with it; I don't know how they +got a hold of it. So when he got that chance to go, I just said, 'Go.' +You'll see he'll keep all straight enough after this, Mr. Westover.” + +“Old woman read you any of Jeff's letters?” Whit-well asked, when his +chance for private conference with Westover came. “What was the rights +of that scrape he got into?” + +Westover explained as favorably to Jeff as he could; the worst of the +affair was the bad company he was in. + +“Well, where there's smoke there's some fire. Cou't discharged him and +college suspended him. That's about where it is? I guess he'll keep out +o' harm's way next time. Read you what he said about them scenes of the +Revolution in Paris?” + +“Yes; he seems to have looked it all up pretty thoroughly.” + +“Done it for me, I guess, much as anything. I was always talkin' it up +with him. Jeff's kep' his eyes open, that's a fact. He's got a head on +him, more'n I ever thought.” + +Westover decided that Mrs. Durgin's prepotent behavior toward Mrs. +Marven the summer before had not hurt her materially, with the witnesses +even. There were many new boarders, but most of those whom he had +already met were again at Lion's Head. They said there was no air like +it, and no place so comfortable. If they had sold their birthright for a +mess of pottage, Westover had to confess that the pottage was very good. +Instead of the Irish woman at ten dollars a week who had hitherto been +Mrs. Durgin's cook, under her personal surveillance and direction, +she had now a man cook, whom she boldly called a chef and paid eighty +dollars a month. He wore the white apron and white cap of his calling, +but Westover heard him speak Yankee through his nose to one of the +stablemen as they exchanged hilarities across the space between the +basement and the barn-door. “Yes,” Mrs. Durgin admitted, “he's an +American; and he learnt his trade at one of the best hotels in Portland. +He's pretty headstrong, but I guess he does what he's told--in the +end. The meanyous? Oh, Franky Whitwell prints then. He's got an amateur +printing-office in the stable-loft.” + + + + +XIV. + +One morning toward the end of August, Whitwell, who was starting +homeward, after leaving his ladies, burdened with their wishes and +charges for the morrow, met Westover coming up the hill with his +painting-gear in his hand. “Say!” he hailed him. “Why don't you come +down to the house to-night? Jackson's goin' to come, and, if you ha'n't +seen him work the plantchette for a spell, you'll be surprised. There +a'n't hardly anybody he can't have up. You'll come? Good enough!” + +What affected Westover first of all at the seance, and perhaps most of +all, was the quality of the air in the little house; it was close and +stuffy, mixed with an odor of mould and an ancient smell of rats. The +kerosene-lamp set in the centre of the table, where Jackson afterward +placed his planchette, devoured the little life that was left in it. +At the gasps which Westover gave, with some despairing glances at the +closed windows, Whitwell said: “Hot? Well, I guess it is a little. But, +you see, Jackson has got to be careful about the night air; but I guess +I can fix it for you.” He went out into the ell, and Westover heard him +raising a window. He came back and asked, “That do? It 'll get around in +here directly,” and Westover had to profess relief. + +Jackson came in presently with the little Canuck, whom Whitwell +presented to Westover: “Know Jombateeste?” + +The two were talking about a landslide which had taken place on the +other side of the mountain; the news had just come that they had found +among the ruins the body of the farm-hand who had been missing since the +morning of the slide; his funeral was to be the next day. + +Jackson put his planchette on the table, and sat down before it with a +sigh; the Canuck remained standing, and on foot he was scarcely a head +higher than the seated Yankees. “Well,” Jackson said, “I suppose he +knows all about it now,” meaning the dead farm-hand. + +“Yes,” Westover suggested, “if he knows anything.” + +“Know anything!” Whitwell shouted. “Why, man, don't you believe he's as +much alive as ever he was?” + +“I hope so,” said Westover, submissively. + +“Don't you know it?” + +“Not as I know other things. In fact, I don't know it,” said Westover, +and he was painfully aware of having shocked his hearers by the +agnosticism so common among men in towns that he had confessed it quite +simply and unconsciously. He perceived that faith in the soul and life +everlasting was as quick as ever in the hills, whatever grotesque or +unwonted form it wore. Jackson sat with closed eyes and his head fallen +back; Whitwell stared at the painter, with open mouth; the little Canuck +began to walk up and down impatiently; Westover felt a reproach, almost +an abhorrence, in all of them. + +Whitwell asked: “Why, don't you think there's any proof of it?” + +“Proof? Oh Yes. There's testimony enough to carry conviction to the +stubbornest mind on any other point. But it's very strange about all +that. It doesn't convince anybody but the witnesses. If a man tells +me he's seen a disembodied spirit, I can't believe him. I must see the +disembodied spirit myself.” + +“That's something so,” said Whitwell, with a relenting laugh. + +“If one came back from the dead, to tell us of a life beyond the grave, +we should want the assurance that he'd really been dead, and not merely +dreaming.” + +Whitwell laughed again, in the delight the philosophic mind finds even +in the reasoning that hates it. + +The Canuck felt perhaps the simpler joy that the average man has in +any strange notion that he is able to grasp. He stopped in his walk and +said: “Yes, and if you was dead and went to heaven, and stayed so long +you smelt, like Lazarus, and you come back and tol' 'em what you saw, +nobody goin' believe you.” + +“Well, I guess you're right there, Jombateeste,” said Whitwell, with +pleasure in the Canuck's point. After a moment he suggested to Westover: +“Then I s'pose, if you feel the way you do, you don't care much about +plantchette?” + +“Oh yes, I do,” said the painter. “We never know when we may be upon the +point of revelation. I wouldn't miss any chance.” + +Whether Whitwell felt an ironic slant in the words or not, he paused a +moment before he said: “Want to start her up, Jackson?” + +Jackson brought to the floor the forefeet of his chair, which he had +tilted from it in leaning back, and without other answer put his hand +on the planchette. It began to fly over the large sheet of paper spread +upon the table, in curves and angles and eccentrics. + +“Feels pootty lively to-night,” said Whitwell, with a glance at +Westover. + +The little Canuck, as if he had now no further concern in the matter, +sat down in a corner and smoked silently. Whitwell asked, after a +moment's impatience: + +“Can't you git her down to business, Jackson?” + +Jackson gasped: “She'll come down when she wants to.” + +The little instrument seemed, in fact, trying to control itself. +Its movements became less wild and large; the zigzags began to shape +themselves into something like characters. Jackson's wasted face gave no +token of interest; Whitwell laid half his gaunt length across the table +in the endeavor to make out some meaning in them; the Canuck, with his +hands crossed on his stomach, smoked on, with the same gleam in his pipe +and eye. + +The planchette suddenly stood motionless. + +“She done?” murmured Whitwell. + +“I guess she is, for a spell, anyway,” said Jackson, wearily. + +“Let's try to make out what she says.” Whitwell drew the sheets toward +himself and Westover, who sat next him. “You've got to look for the +letters everywhere. Sometimes she'll give you fair and square writin', +and then again she'll slat the letters down every which way, and you've +got to hunt 'em out for yourself. Here's a B I've got. That begins along +pretty early in the alphabet. Let's see what we can find next.” + +Westover fancied he could make out an F and a T. + +Whitwell exulted in an unmistakable K and N; and he made sure of an I, +and an E. The painter was not so sure of an S. “Well, call it an S,” + said Whitwell. “And I guess I've got an O here, and an H. Hello! Here's +an A as large as life. Pootty much of a mixture.” + +“Yes; I don't see that we're much better off than we were before,” said +Westover. + +“Well, I don't know about that,” said Whitwell. + +“Write 'em down in a row and see if we can't pick out some sense. +I've had worse finds than this; no vowels at all sometimes; but here's +three.” + +He wrote the letters down, while Jackson leaned back against the wall, +in patient quiet. + +“Well, sir,” said Whitwell, pushing the paper, where he had written the +letters in a line, to Westover, “make anything out of 'em?” + +Westover struggled with them a moment. “I can make out one word-shaft.” + +“Anything else?” demanded Whitwell, with a glance of triumph at Jackson. + +Westover studied the remaining letters. “Yes, I get one other +word-broken.” + +“Just what I done! But I wanted you to speak first. It's Broken Shaft. +Jackson, she caught right onto what we was talkin' about. This life,” + he turned to Westover, in solemn exegesis, “is a broken shaft when death +comes. It rests upon the earth, but you got to look for the top of it +in the skies. That's the way I look at it. What do you think, Jackson? +Jombateeste?” + +“I think anybody can't see that. Better go and get some heye-glass.” + +Westover remained in a shameful minority. He said, meekly: “It suggests +a beautiful hope.” + +Jackson brought his chair-legs down again, and put his hand on the +planchette. + +“Feel that tinglin'?” asked. Whitwell, and Jackson made yes with silent +lips. “After he's been workin' the plantchette for a spell, and then +leaves off, and she wants to say something more,” Whitwell explained to +Westover, “he seems to feel a kind of tinglin' in his arm, as if it was +asleep, and then he's got to tackle her again. Writin' steady enough +now, Jackson!” he cried, joyously. “Let's see.” He leaned over and read, +“Thomas Jefferson--” The planchette stopped, “My, I didn't go to +do that,” said Whitwell, apologetically. “You much acquainted with +Jefferson's writin's?” he asked of Westover. + +The painter had to own his ignorance of all except the diction that the +government is best which governs least; but he was not in a position to +deny that Jefferson had ever said anything about a broken shaft. + +“It may have come to him on the other side,” said Whitwell. + +“Perhaps,” Westover assented. + +The planchette began to stir itself again. “She's goin' ahead!” cried +Whitwell. He leaned over the table so as to get every letter as it +was formed. “D--Yes! Death. Death is the Broken Shaft. Go on!” After a +moment of faltering the planchette formed another letter. It was a U, +and it was followed by an R, and so on, till Durgin had been spelled. +“Thunder!” cried Whitwell. “If anything's happened to Jeff!” + +Jackson lifted his hand from the planchette. + +“Oh, go on, Jackson!” Whitwell entreated. “Don't leave it so!” + +“I can't seem to go on,” Jackson whispered, and Westover could not +resist the fear that suddenly rose among them. But he made the first +struggle against it. “This is nonsense. Or, if there's any sense in it, +it means that Jeff's ship has broken her shaft and put back.” + +Whitwell gave a loud laugh of relief. “That's so! You've hit it, Mr. +Westover.” + +Jackson said, quietly: “He didn't mean to start home till tomorrow. And +how could he send any message unless he was--” + +“Easily!” cried Westover. “It's simply an instance of mental +impression-of telepathy, as they call it.” + +“That's so!” shouted Whitwell, with eager and instant conviction. + +Westover could see that Jackson still doubted. “If you believe that a +disembodied spirit can communicate with you, why not an embodied spirit? +If anything has happened to your brother's ship, his mind would be +strongly on you at home, and why couldn't it convey its thought to you?” + +“Because he ha'n't started yet,” said Jackson. + +Westover wanted to laugh; but they all heard voices without, which +seemed to be coming nearer, and he listened with the rest. He made out +Frank Whitwell's voice, and his sister's; and then another voice, louder +and gayer, rose boisterously above them. Whitwell flung the door open +and plunged out into the night. He came back, hauling Jeff Durgin in by +the shoulder. + +“Here, now,” he shouted to Jackson, “you just let this feller and +plantchette fight it out together!” + +“What's the matter with plantchette?” said Jeff, before he said to his +brother, “Hello, Jackson!” and to the Canuck, “Hello, Jombateeste!” He +shook hands conventionally with them both, and then with the painter, +whom he greeted with greater interest. “Glad to see you here, Mr. +Westover. Did I take you by surprise?” he asked of the company at large. + +“No, sir,” said Whitwell. “Didn't surprise us any, if you are a +fortnight ahead of time,” he added, with a wink at the others. + +“Well, I took a notion I wouldn't wait for the cattle-ship, and I +started back on a French boat. Thought I'd try it. They live well. But I +hoped I should astonish you a little, too. I might as well waited.” + +Whitwell laughed. “We heard from you--plantchette kept right round after +you.” + +“That so?” asked Jeff, carelessly. + +“Fact. Have a good voyage?” Whitwell had the air of putting a casual +question. + +“First-rate,” said Jeff. “Plantchette say not?” + +“No. Only about the broken shaft.” + +“Broken shaft? We didn't have any broken shaft. Plantchette's got mixed +a little. Got the wrong ship.” + +After a moment of chop-fallenness, Whitwell said: + +“Then somebody's been makin' free with your name. Curious how them +devils cut up oftentimes.” + +He explained, and Jeff laughed uproariously when he understood the whole +case. “Plantchette's been havin' fun with you.” + +Whitwell gave himself time for reflection. “No, sir, I don't look at +it that way. I guess the wires got crossed some way. If there's such a +thing as the spirits o' the livin' influencin' plantchette, accordin' +to Mr. Westover's say, here, I don't see why it wa'n't. Jeff's being +so near that got control of her and made her sign his name to somebody +else's words. It shows there's something in it.” + +“Well, I'm glad to come back alive, anyway,” said Jeff, with a joviality +new to Westover. “I tell you, there a'n't many places finer than old +Lion's Head, after all. Don't you think so, Mr. Westover? I want to +get the daylight on it, but it does well by moonlight, even.” He looked +round at the tall girl, who had been lingering to hear the talk of +planchette; at the backward tilt he gave his head, to get her in range, +she frowned as if she felt his words a betrayal, and slipped out of the +room; the boy had already gone, and was making himself heard in the low +room overhead. + +“There's a lot of folks here this summer, mother says,” he appealed from +the check he had got to Jackson. “Every room taken for the whole month, +she says.” + +“We've been pretty full all July, too,” said Jackson, blankly. + +“Well, it's a great business; and I've picked up a lot of hints over +there. We're not so smart as we think we are. The Swiss can teach us a +thing or two. They know how to keep a hotel.” + +“Go to Switzerland?” asked Whitwell. + +“I slipped over into the edge of it.” + +“I want to know! Well, now them Alps, now--they so much bigger 'n the +White Hills, after all?” + +“Well, I don't know about all of 'em,” said Jeff. “There may be some +that would compare with our hills, but I should say that you could take +Mount Washington up and set it in the lap of almost any one of the Alps +I saw, and it would look like a baby on its mother's knee.” + +“I want to know!” said Whitwell again. His tone expressed +disappointment, but impartiality; he would do justice to foreign +superiority if he must. “And about the ocean. What about waves runnin? +mountains high?” + +“Well, we didn't have it very rough. But I don't believe I saw any waves +much higher than Lion's Head.” Jeff laughed to find Whitwell taking him +seriously. “Won't that satisfy you?” + +“Oh, it satisfies me. Truth always does. But, now, about London. You +didn't seem to say so much about London in your letters, now. Is it so +big as they let on? Big--that is, to the naked eye, as you may say?” + +“There a'n't any one place where you can get a complete bird's-eye view +of it,” said Jeff, “and two-thirds of it would be hid in smoke, anyway. +You've got to think of a place that would take in the whole population +of New England, outside of Massachusetts, and not feel as if it had more +than a comfortable meal.” + +Whitwell laughed for joy in the bold figure. + +“I'll tell you. When you've landed and crossed up from Liverpool, and +struck London, you feel as if you'd gone to sea again. It's an ocean--a +whole Atlantic of houses.” + +“That's right!” crowed Whitwell. “That's the way I thought it was. +Growin' any?” + +Jeff hesitated. “It grows in the night. You've heard about Chicago +growing?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, London grows a whole Chicago every night.” + +“Good!” said Whitwell. “That suits me. And about Paris, now. Paris +strike you the same way?” + +“It don't need to,” said Jeff. “That's a place where I'd like to live. +Everybody's at home there. It's a man's house and his front yard, and +I tell you they keep it clean. Paris is washed down every morning; +scrubbed and mopped and rubbed dry. You couldn't find any more dirt than +you could in mother's kitchen after she's hung out her wash. That so, +Mr. Westover?” + +Westover confirmed in general Jeff's report of the cleanliness of Paris. + +“And beautiful! You don't know what a good-looking town is till you +strike Paris. And they're proud of it, too. Every man acts as if he +owned it. They've had the statue of Alsace in that Place de la Concorde +of yours, Mr. Whitwell, where they had the guillotine all draped in +black ever since the war with Germany; and they mean to have her back, +some day.” + +“Great country, Jombateeste!” Whitwell shouted to the Canuck. + +The little man roused himself from the muse in which he was listening +and smoking. “Me, I'm Frantsh,” he said. + +“Yes, that's what Jeff was sayin',” said Whitwell. “I meant France.” + +“Oh,” answered Jombateeste, impatiently, “I thought you mean the Hunited +State.” + +“Well, not this time,” said Whitwell, amid the general laughter. + +“Good for Jombateeste,” said Jeff. “Stand up for Canada every time, +John. It's the livest country, in the world three months of the year, +and the ice keeps it perfectly sweet the other nine.” + +Whitwell could not brook a diversion from the high and serious inquiry +they had entered upon. “It must have made this country look pretty slim +when you got back. How'd New York look, after Paris?” + +“Like a pigpen,” said Jeff. He left his chair and walked round the +table toward a door opening into the adjoining room. For the first time +Westover noticed a figure in white seated there, and apparently rapt in +the talk which had been going on. At the approach of Jeff, and before +he could have made himself seen at the doorway, a tremor seemed to pass +over the figure; it fluttered to its feet, and then it vanished into +the farther dark of the room. When Jeff disappeared within, there was a +sound of rustling skirts and skurrying feet and the crash of a closing +door, and then the free rise of laughing voices without. After a +discreet interval, Westover said: “Mr. Whitwell, I must say good-night. +I've got another day's work before me. It's been a most interesting +evening.” + +“You must try it again,” said Whitwell, hospitably. “We ha'n't got to +the bottom of that broken shaft yet. You'll see 't plantchette 'll have +something more to say about it: Heigh, Jackson?” He rose to receive +Westover's goodnight; the others nodded to him. + +As the painter climbed the hill to the hotel he saw two figures on +the road below; the one in white drapery looked severed by a dark +line slanting across it at the waist. In the country, he knew, such +an appearance might mark the earliest stages of love-making, or +mere youthful tenderness, in which there was nothing more implied or +expected. But whatever the fact was, Westover felt a vague distaste for +it, which, as it related itself to a more serious possibility, deepened +to something like pain. It was probable that it should come to this +between those two, but Westover rebelled against the event with a sense +of its unfitness for which he could not give himself any valid reason; +and in the end he accused himself of being a fool. + +Two ladies sat on the veranda of the hotel and watched a cloud-wreath +trying to lift itself from the summit of Lion's Head. In the effort it +thinned away to transparency in places; in others, it tore its frail +texture asunder and let parts of the mountain show through; then the +fragments knitted themselves loosely together, and the vapor lay again +in dreamy quiescence. + +The ladies were older and younger, and apparently mother and daughter. +The mother had kept her youth in face and figure so admirably that +in another light she would have looked scarcely the elder. It was the +candor of the morning which confessed the fine vertical lines running +up and down to her lips, only a shade paler than the girl's, and that +showed her hair a trifle thinner in its coppery brown, her blue eyes +a little dimmer. They were both very graceful, and they had soft, +caressing voices; they now began to talk very politely to each other, as +if they were strangers, or as if strangers were by. They talked of the +landscape, and of the strange cloud effect before them. They said that +they supposed they should see the Lion's Head when the cloud lifted, and +they were both sure they had never been quite so near a cloud before. +They agreed that this was because in Switzerland the mountains were so +much higher and farther off. Then the daughter said, without changing +the direction of her eyes or the tone of her voice, “The gentleman who +came over from the station with us last night,” and the mother was aware +of Jeff Durgin advancing toward the corner of the veranda where they +sat. + +“I hope you have got rested,” he said, with the jovial bluntness which +was characteristic of him with women. + +“Oh, yes indeed,” said the elder lady. Jeff had spoken to her, but had +looked chiefly at the younger. “I slept beautifully. So quiet here, and +with this delicious air! Have you just tasted it?” + +“No; I've been up ever since daylight, driving round,” said Jeff. “I'm +glad you like the air,” he said, after a certain hesitation. “We always +want to have people do that at Lion's Head. There's no air like it, +though perhaps I shouldn't say so.” + +“Shouldn't?” the lady repeated. + +“Yes; we own the air here--this part of it.” Jeff smiled easily down at +the lady's puzzled face. + +“Oh! Then you are--are you a son of the house?” + +“Son of the hotel, yes,” said Jeff, with increasing ease. The lady +continued her question in a look, and he went on: “I've been scouring +the country for butter and eggs this morning. We shall get all our +supplies from Boston next year, I hope, but we depend on the neighbors a +little yet.” + +“How very interesting!” said the lady. “You must have a great many queer +adventures,” she suggested in a provisional tone. + +“Well, nothing's queer to me in the hill country. But you see some +characters here.” He nodded over his shoulder to where Whitwell stood by +the flag-staff, waiting the morning impulse of the ladies. “There's one +of the greatest of them now.” + +The lady put up a lorgnette and inspected Whitwell. “What are those +strange things he has got in his hatband?” + +“The flowers and the fungi of the season,” said Jeff. “He takes +parties of the ladies walking, and that collection is what he calls his +almanac.” + +“Really?” cried the girl. “That's charming!” + +“Delightful!” said the mother, moved by the same impulse, apparently. + +“Yes,” said Jeff. “You ought to hear him talk. I'll introduce him to you +after breakfast, if you like.” + +“Oh, we should only be too happy,” said the mother, and her daughter, +from her inflection, knew that she would be willing to defer her +happiness. + +But Jeff did not. “Mr. Whitwell!” he called out, and Whitwell came +across the grass to the edge of the veranda. “I want to introduce you to +Mrs. Vostrand--and Miss Vostrand.” + +Whitwell took their slim hands successively into his broad, flat palm, +and made Mrs. Vostrand repeat her name to him. “Strangers at Lion's +Head, I presume?” Mrs. Vostrand owned as much; and he added: “Well, I +guess you won't find a much sightlier place anywhere; though, accordin' +to Jeff's say, here, they've got bigger mountains on the other side. +Ever been in Europe?” + +“Why, yes,” said Mrs. Vostrand, with a little mouth of deprecation. “In +fact, we've just come home. We've been living there.” + +“That so?” returned Whitwell, in humorous toleration. “Glad to get back, +I presume?” + +“Oh yes--yes,” said Mrs. Vostrand, in a sort of willowy concession, as +if the character before her were not to be crossed or gainsaid. + +“Well, it 'll do you good here,” said Whitwell. “'N' the young lady, +too. A few tramps over these hills 'll make you look like another +woman.” He added, as if he had perhaps made his remarks too personal to +the girl, “Both of you.” + +“Oh yes,” the mother assented, fervently. “We shall count upon your +showing us all their-mysteries.” + +Whitwell looked pleased. “I'll do my best-whenever you're ready.” He +went on: “Why, Jeff, here, has just got back, too. Jeff, what was the +name of that French boat you said you crossed on? I want to see if I +can't make out what plantchette meant by that broken shaft. She must +have meant something, and if I could find out the name of the ship--Tell +the ladies about it?” Jeff laughed, with a shake of the head, and +Whitwell continued, “Why, it was like this,” and he possessed the ladies +of a fact which they professed to find extremely interesting. At the end +of their polite expressions he asked Jeff again: “What did you say the +name was?” + +“Aquitaine,” said Jeff, briefly. + +“Why, we came on the Aquitaine!” said Mrs. Vostrand, with a smile for +Jeff. “But how did we happen not to see one another?” + +“Oh, I came second-cabin,” said Jeff. “I worked my way over on a +cattle-ship to London, and, when I decided not to work my way back, I +found I hadn't enough money for a first-cabin passage. I was in a +hurry to get back in time to get settled at Harvard, and so I came +second-cabin. It wasn't bad. I used to see you across the rail.” + +“Well!” said Whitwell. + +“How very--amusing!” said Mrs. Vostrand. “What a small world it is!” + With these words she fell into a vagary; her daughter recalled her from +it with a slight movement. “Breakfast? How impatient you are, Genevieve! +Well!” She smiled the sweetest parting to Whitwell, and suffered herself +to be led away by Jeff. + +“And you're at Harvard? I'm so interested! My own boy will be going +there soon.” + +“Well, there's no place like Harvard,” said Jeff. “I'm in my Sophomore +year now.” + +“Oh, a Sophomore! Fancy!” cried Mrs. Vostrand, as if nothing could give +her more pleasure. “My son is going to prepare at St. Mark's. Did you +prepare there?” + +“No, I prepared at Lovewell Academy, over here.” Jeff nodded in a +southerly direction. + +“Oh, indeed!” said Mrs. Vostrand, as if she knew where Lovewell was, and +instantly recognized the name of the ancient school. + +They had reached the dining room, and Jeff pushed the screen-door +open with one hand, and followed the ladies in. He had the effect of +welcoming them like invited guests; he placed the ladies himself at a +window, where he said Mrs. Vostrand would be out of the draughts, and +they could have a good view of Lion's Head. + +He leaned over between them, when they were seated, to get sight of the +mountain, and, “There!” he said. “That cloud's gone at last.” Then, as +if it would be modester in the proprietor of the view to leave them +to their flattering raptures in it, he moved away and stood talking +a moment with Cynthia Whitwell near the door of the serving-room. He +talked gayly, with many tosses of the head and turns about, while she +listened with a vague smile, motionlessly. + +“She's very pretty,” said Miss Vostrand to her mother. + +“Yes. The New England type,” murmured the mother. + +“They all have the same look, a good deal,” said the girl, glancing over +the room where the waitresses stood ranged against the wall with their +hands folded at their waists. “They have better faces than figures, but +she is beautiful every way. Do you suppose they are all schoolteachers? +They look intellectual. Or is it their glasses?” + +“I don't know,” said the mother. “They used to be; but things change +here so rapidly it may all be different. Do you like it?” + +“I think it's charming here,” said the younger lady, evasively. +“Everything is so exquisitely clean. And the food is very good. Is this +corn-bread--that you've told me about so much?” + +“Yes, this is corn-bread. You will have to get accustomed to it.” + +“Perhaps it won't take long. I could fancy that girl knowing about +everything. Don't you like her looks?” + +“Oh, very much.” Mrs. Vostrand turned for another glance at Cynthia. + +“What say?” Their smiling waitress came forward from the wall where she +was leaning, as if she thought they had spoken to her. + +“Oh, we were speaking--the young lady to whom Mr. Durgin was +talking--she is--” + +“She's the housekeeper--Miss Whitwell.” + +“Oh, indeed! She seems so young--” + +“I guess she knows what to do-o-o,” the waitress chanted. “We think +she's about ri-i-ght.” She smiled tolerantly upon the misgiving of +the stranger, if it was that, and then retreated when the mother and +daughter began talking together again. + +They had praised the mountain with the cloud off, to Jeff, very +politely, and now the mother said, a little more intimately, but +still with the deference of a society acquaintance: “He seems very +gentlemanly, and I am sure he is very kind. I don't quite know what to +do about it, do you?” + +“No, I don't. It's all strange to me, you know.” + +“Yes, I suppose it must be. But you will get used to it if we remain in +the country. Do you think you will dislike it?” + +“Oh no! It's very different.” + +“Yes, it's different. He is very handsome, in a certain way.” The +daughter said nothing, and the mother added: “I wonder if he was trying +to conceal that he had come second-cabin, and was not going to let us +know that he crossed with us?” + +“Do you think he was bound to do so?” + +“No. But it was very odd, his not mentioning it. And his going out on a +cattle-steamer?” the mother observed. + +“Oh, but that's very chic, I've heard,” the daughter replied. “I've +heard that the young men like it and think it a great chance. They have +great fun. It isn't at all like second-cabin.” + +“You young people have your own world,” the mother answered, +caressingly. + + + + +XVI. + +Westover met the ladies coming out of the dining-room as he went in +rather late to breakfast; he had been making a study of Lion's Head in +the morning light after the cloud lifted from it. He was always doing +Lion's Heads, it seemed to him; but he loved the mountain, and he was +always finding something new in it. + +He was now seeing it inwardly with so exclusive a vision that he had no +eyes for these extremely pretty women till they were out of sight. Then +he remembered noticing them, and started with a sense of recognition, +which he verified by the hotel register when he had finished his meal. +It was, in fact, Mrs. James W. Vostrand, and it was Miss Vostrand, whom +Westover had know ten years before in Italy. Mrs. Vostrand had then +lately come abroad for the education of her children, and was pausing +in doubt at Florence whether she should educate them in Germany or +Switzerland. Her husband had apparently abandoned this question to her, +and he did not contribute his presence to her moral support during her +struggle with a problem which Westover remembered as having a tendency +to solution in the direction of a permanent stay in Florence. + +In those days he liked Mrs. Vostrand very much, and at twenty he +considered her at thirty distinctly middle-aged. For one winter she had +a friendly little salon, which was the most attractive place in Florence +to him, then a cub painter sufficiently unlicked. He was aware of her +children being a good deal in the salon: a girl of eight, who was like +her mother, and quite a savage little boy of five, who may have been +like his father. If he was, and the absent Mr. Vostrand had the same +habit of sulking and kicking at people's shins, Westover could partly +understand why Mrs. Vostrand had come to Europe for the education of her +children. It all came vividly back to him, while he went about looking +for Mrs. Vostrand and her daughter on the verandas and in the parlors. +But he did not find them, and he was going to send his name to their +rooms when he came upon Jeff Durgin figuring about the office in a fresh +London conception of an outing costume. + +“You're very swell,” said Westover, halting him to take full note of it. + +“Like it? Well, I knew you'd understand what it meant. Mother thinks +it's a little too rowdy-looking. Her idea is black broadcloth frock-coat +and doeskin trousers for a gentleman, you know.” He laughed with a young +joyousness, and then became serious. “Couple of ladies here, somewhere, +I'd like to introduce you to. Came over with me from the depot last +night. Very nice people, and I'd like to make it pleasant for them--get +up something--go somewhere--and when you see their style you can judge +what it had better be. Mrs. Vostrand and her daughter.” + +“Thank you,” said Westover. “I think I know them already at least one of +them. I used to go to Mrs. Vostrand's house in Florence.” + +“That so? Well, fact is, I crossed with them; but I came second-cabin, +because I'd spent all my money, and I didn't get acquainted with them +on the ship, but we met in the train coming up last night. Said they had +heard of Lion's Head on the other side from friends. But it was quite +a coincidence, don't you think? I'd like to have them see what this +neighborhood really is; and I wish, Mr. Westover, you'd find out, if you +can, what they'd like. If they're for walking, we could get Whitwell to +personally conduct a party, and if they're for driving, I'd like to show +them a little mountain-coaching myself.” + +“I don't know whether I'd better not leave the whole thing to you, +Jeff,” Westover said, after a moment's reflection. “I don't see exactly +how I could bring the question into a first interview.” + +“Well, perhaps it would be rather rushing it. But, if I get up +something, you'll come, Mr. Westover?” + +“I will, with great pleasure,” said Westover, and he went to make his +call. + +A half-hour later he was passing the door of the old parlor which Mrs. +Durgin still kept for hers, on his way up to his room, when a sound +of angry voices came out to him. Then the voice of Mrs. Durgin defined +itself in the words: “I'm not goin' to have to ask any more folks for +their rooms on your account, Jeff Durgin--Mr. Westover! Mr. Westover, +is that you?” her voice broke off to call after him as he hurried by, +“Won't you come in here a minute?” + +He hesitated, and then Jeff called, “Yes, come in, Mr. Westover.” + +The painter found him sitting on the old hair-cloth sofa, with his stick +between his hands and knees, confronting his mother, who was rocking +excitedly to and fro in the old hair-cloth easy-chair. + +“You know these folks that Jeff's so crazy about?” she demanded. + +“Crazy!” cried Jeff, laughing and frowning at the same time. “What's +crazy in wanting to go off on a drive and choose your own party?” + +“Do you know them?” Mrs. Durgin repeated to Westover. + +“The Vostrands? Why, yes. I knew Mrs. Vostrand in Italy a good many +years ago, and I've just been calling on her and her daughter, who was a +little girl then.” + +“What kind of folks are they?” + +“What kind? Really! Why, they're very charming people--” + +“So Jeff seems to think. Any call to show them any particular +attention?” + +“I don't know if I quite understand--” + +“Why, it's just this. Jeff, here, wants to make a picnic for them, or +something, and I can't see the sense of it. You remember what happened +at that other picnic, with that Mrs. Marven”--Jeff tapped the floor with +his stick impatiently, and Westover felt sorry for him--“and I don't +want it to happen again, and I've told Jeff so. I presume he thinks +it 'll set him right with them, if they're thinkin' demeaning of him +because he came over second-cabin on their ship.” + +Jeff set his teeth and compressed his lips to bear as best he could, +the give-away which his mother could not appreciate in its importance to +him: + +“They're not the kind of people to take such a thing shabbily,” said +Westover. “They didn't happen to mention it, but Mrs. Vostrand must have +got used to seeing young fellows in straits of all kinds during her life +abroad. I know that I sometimes made the cup of tea and biscuit she used +to give me in Florence do duty for a dinner, and I believe she knew it.” + +Jeff looked up at Westover with a grateful, sidelong glance. + +His mother said: “Well, then, that's all right, and Jeff needn't do +anything for them on that account. And I've made up my mind about one +thing: whatever the hotel does has got to be done for the whole hotel. +It can't pick and choose amongst the guests.” Westover liked so little +the part of old family friend which he seemed, whether he liked it or +not, to bear with the Durgins, that he would gladly have got away now, +but Mrs. Durgin detained him with a direct appeal. “Don't you think so, +Mr. Westover?” + +Jeff spared him the pain of a response. “Very well,” he said to his +mother; “I'm not the hotel, and you never want me to be. I can do this +on my own account.” + +“Not with my coach and not with my hosses,” said his mother. + +Jeff rose. “I might as well go on down to Cambridge, and get to work on +my conditions.” + +“Just as you please about that,” said Mrs. Durgin, with the same +impassioned quiet that showed in her son's handsome face and made it one +angry red to his yellow hair. “We've got along without you so far, this +summer, and I guess we can the rest of the time. And the sooner you work +off your conditions the better, I presume.” + +The next morning Jeff came to take leave of him, where Westover had +pitched his easel and camp-stool on the slope behind the hotel. + +“Why, are you really going?” he asked. “I was in hopes it might have +blown over.” + +“No, things don't blow over so easy with mother,” said Jeff, with an +embarrassed laugh, but no resentment. “She generally means what she +says.” + +“Well, in this case, Jeff, I think she was right.” + +“Oh, I guess so,” said Jeff, pulling up a long blade of grass and taking +it between his teeth. “Anyway, it comes to the same thing as far as I'm +concerned. It's for her to say what shall be done and what sha'n't be +done in her own house, even if it is a hotel. That's what I shall do in +mine. We're used to these little differences; but we talk it out, and +that's the end of it. I shouldn't really go, though, if I didn't think +I ought to get in some work on those conditions before the thing begins +regularly. I should have liked to help here a little, for I've had a +good time and I ought to be willing to pay for it. But she's in good +hands. Jackson's well--for him--and she's got Cynthia.” + +The easy security of tone with which Jeff pronounced the name vexed +Westover. “I suppose your mother would hardly know how to do without +her, even if you were at home,” he said, dryly. + +“Well, that's a fact,” Jeff assented, with a laugh for the hit. “And +Jackson thinks the world of her. I believe he trusts her judgment more +than he does mother's about the hotel. Well, I must be going. You don't +know where Mrs. Vostrand is going to be this winter, I suppose?” + +“No, I don't,” said Westover. He could not help a sort of blind +resentment in the situation. If he could not feel that Jeff was the best +that could be for Cynthia, he had certainly no reason to regret that his +thoughts could be so lightly turned from her. But the fact anomalously +incensed him as a slight to the girl, who might have been still more +sacrificed by Jeff's constancy. He forced himself to add: “I fancy Mrs. +Vostrand doesn't know herself.” + +“I wish I didn't know where I was going to be,” said Jeff. “Well, +good-bye, Mr. Westover. I'll see you in Boston.” + +“Oh, good-bye.” The painter freed himself from his brush and palette for +a parting handshake, reluctantly. + +Jeff plunged down the hill, waving a final adieu from the corner of the +hotel before he vanished round it. + +Mrs. Vostrand and her daughter were at breakfast when Westover came in +after the early light had been gone some time. They entreated him to +join them at their table, and the mother said: “I suppose you were up +soon enough to see young Mr. Durgin off. Isn't it too bad he has to go +back to college when it's so pleasant in the country?” + +“Not bad for him,” said Westover. “He's a young man who can stand a +great deal of hard work.” Partly because he was a little tired of Jeff, +and partly because he was embarrassed in their presence by the reason of +his going, he turned the talk upon the days they had known together. + +Mrs. Vostrand was very willing to talk of her past, even apart from his, +and she told him of her sojourn in Europe since her daughter had +left school. They spent their winters in Italy and their summers +in Switzerland, where it seemed her son was still at his studies in +Lausanne. She wished him to go to Harvard, she said, and she supposed he +would have to finish his preparation at one of the American schools; but +she had left the choice entirely to Mr. Vostrand. + +This seemed a strange event after twelve years' stay in Europe for the +education of her children, but Westover did not feel authorized to make +any comment upon it. He fell rather to thinking how very pleasant both +mother and daughter were, and to wondering how much wisdom they had +between them. He reflected that men had very little wisdom, as far as +he knew them, and he questioned whether, after all, the main difference +between men and women might not be that women talked their follies and +men acted theirs. Probably Mrs. Vostrand, with all her babble, had +done fewer foolish things than her husband, but here Westover felt his +judgment disabled by the fact that he had never met her husband; and his +mind began to wander to a question of her daughter, whom he had there +before him. He found himself bent upon knowing more of the girl, and +trying to eliminate her mother from the talk, or, at least, to make +Genevieve lead in it. But apparently she was not one of the natures +that like to lead; at any rate, she remained discreetly in abeyance, and +Westover fancied she even respected her mother's opinions and ideas. He +thought this very well for both of them, whether it was the effect of +Mrs. Vostrand's merit or Miss Vostrand's training. They seemed both +of one exquisite gentleness, and of one sweet manner, which was rather +elaborate and formal in expression. They deferred to each other as +politely as they deferred to him, but, if anything, the daughter +deferred most. + + + + +XVII. + +The Vostrands did not stay long at Lion's Head. Before the week was +out Mrs. Vostrand had a letter summoning them to meet her husband at +Montreal, where that mysterious man, who never came into the range of +Westover's vision, somehow, was kept by business from joining them in +the mountains. + +Early in October the painter received Mrs. Vostrand's card at his studio +in Boston, and learned from the scribble which covered it that she was +with her daughter at the Hotel Vendome. He went at once to see them +there, and was met, almost before the greetings were past, with a prayer +for his opinion. + +“Favorable opinion?” he asked. + +“Favorable? Oh yes; of course. It's simply this. When I sent you my +card, we were merely birds of passage, and now I don't know but we +are--What is the opposite of birds of passage?” + +Westover could not think, and said so. + +“Well, it doesn't matter. We were walking down the street, here, this +morning, and we saw the sign of an apartment to let, in a window, and we +thought, just for amusement, we would go in and look at it.” + +“And you took it?” + +“No, not quite so rapid as that. But it was lovely; in such a pretty +'hotel garni', and so exquisitely furnished! We didn't really think of +staying in Boston; we'd quite made up our minds on New York; but this +apartment is a temptation.” + +“Why not yield, then?” said Westover. “That's the easiest way with a +temptation. Confess, now, that you've taken the apartment already!” + +“No, no, I haven't yet,” said Mrs. Vostrand. + +“And if I advised not, you wouldn't?” + +“Ah, that's another thing!” + +“When are you going to take possession, Mrs. Vostrand?” + +“Oh, at once, I suppose--if we do!” + +“And may I come in when I'm hungry, just as I used to do in Florence, +and will you stay me with flagons in the old way?” + +“There never was anything but tea, you know well enough.” + +“The tea had rum in it.” + +“Well, perhaps it will have rum in it here, if you're very good.” + +“I will try my best, on condition that you'll make any and every +possible use of me. Mrs. Vostrand, I can't tell you how very glad I am +you're going to stay,” said the painter, with a fervor that made her +impulsively put out her hand to him. He kept it while he could add, +“I don't forget--I can never forget--how good you were to me in those +days,” and at that she gave his hand a quick pressure. “If I can do +anything at all for you, you will let me, won't you. I'm afraid you'll +be so well provided for that there won't be anything. Ask them to slight +you, to misuse you in something, so that I can come to your rescue.” + +“Yes, I will,” Mrs. Vostrand promised. “And may we come to your studio +to implore your protection?” + +“The sooner the better.” Westover got himself away with a very sweet +friendship in his heart for this rather anomalous lady, who, more than +half her daughter's life, had lived away from her daughter's father, +upon apparently perfectly good terms with him, and so discreetly and +self-respectfully that no breath of reproach had touched her. Until now, +however, her position had not really concerned Westover, and it would +not have concerned him now, if it had not been for a design that formed +itself in his mind as soon as he knew that Mrs. Vostrand meant to pass +the winter in Boston. He felt at once that he could not do things +by halves for a woman who had once done them for him by wholes and +something over, and he had instantly decided that he must not only +be very pleasant to her himself, but he must get his friends to be +pleasant, too. His friends were some of the nicest people in Boston; +nice in both the personal and the social sense; he knew they would not +hesitate to sacrifice themselves for him in a good cause, and that made +him all the more anxious that the cause should be good beyond question. + +Since his last return from Paris he had been rather a fad as a teacher, +and his class had been kept quite strictly to the ladies who got it up +and to such as they chose to let enter it. These were not all chosen +for wealth or family; there were some whose gifts gave the class +distinction, and the ladies were glad to have them. It would be easy to +explain Mrs. Vostrand to these, but the others might be more difficult; +they might have their anxieties, and Westover meant to ask the leader of +the class to help him receive at the studio tea he had at once imagined +for the Vostrands, and that would make her doubly responsible. + +He found himself drawing a very deep and long breath before he began +to mount the many stairs to his studio, and wishing either that Mrs. +Vostrand had not decided to spend the winter in Boston, or else that he +were of a slacker conscience and could wear his gratitude more lightly. +But there was some relief in thinking that he could do nothing for a +month yet. He gained a degree of courage by telling the ladies, when he +went to find them in their new apartment, that he should want them to +meet a few of his friends at tea as soon as people began to get back +to town; and he made the most of their instant joy in accepting his +invitation. + +His pleasure was somehow dashed a little, before he left them, by the +announcement of Jeff Durgin's name. + +“I felt bound to send him my card,” said Mrs. Vostrand, while Jeff was +following his up in the elevator. “He was so very kind to us the day +we arrived at Zion's Head; and I didn't know but he might be feeling a +little sensitive about coming over second-cabin in our ship; and--” + +“How like you, Mrs. Vostrand!” cried Westover, and he was now distinctly +glad he had not tried to sneak out of doing something for her. “Your +kindness won't be worse wasted on Durgin than it was on me, in the old +days, when I supposed I had taken a second-cabin passage for the voyage +of life. There's a great deal of good in him; I don't mean to say he got +through his Freshman year without trouble with the college authorities, +but the Sophomore year generally brings wisdom.” + +“Oh,” said Mrs. Vostrand, “they're always a little wild at first, I +suppose.” + +Later, the ladies brought Jeff with them when they came to Westover's +studio, and the painter perceived that they were very good friends, as +if they must have met several times since he had seen them together. He +interested himself in the growing correctness of Jeff's personal effect. +During his Freshman year, while the rigor of the unwritten Harvard law +yet forbade him a silk hat or a cane, he had kept something of the boy, +if not the country boy. Westover had noted that he had always rather +a taste for clothes, but in this first year he did not get beyond a +derby-hat and a sack-coat, varied toward the end by a cutaway. In the +outing dress he wore at home he was always effective, but there was +something in Jeff's figure which did not lend itself to more formal +fashion; something of herculean proportion which would have marked him +of a classic beauty perhaps if he had not been in clothes at all, or +of a yeomanly vigor and force if he had been clad for work, but which +seemed to threaten the more worldly conceptions of the tailor with +danger. It was as if he were about to burst out of his clothes, not +because he wore them tight, but because there was somehow more of the +man than the citizen in him; something native, primitive, something that +Westover could not find quite a word for, characterized him physically +and spiritually. When he came into the studio after these delicate +ladies, the robust Jeff Durgin wore a long frockcoat, with a flower in +his button-hole, and in his left hand he carried a silk hat turned +over his forearm as he must have noticed people whom he thought stylish +carrying their hats. He had on dark-gray trousers and sharp-pointed +enamelled-leather shoes; and Westover grotesquely reflected that he was +dressed, as he stood, to lead Genevieve Vostrand to the altar. + +Westover saw at once that when he made his studio tea for the Vostrands +he must ask Jeff; it would be cruel, and for several reasons impossible, +not to do so, and he really did not see why he should not. Mrs. Vostrand +was taking him on the right ground, as a Harvard student, and nobody +need take him on any other. Possibly people would ask him to teas at +their own houses, from Westover's studio, but he could not feel that he +was concerned in that. Society is interested in a man's future, not his +past, as it is interested in a woman's past, not her future. + +But when he gave his tea it went off wonderfully well in every way, +perhaps because it was one of the first teas of the fall. It brought +people together in their autumnal freshness before the winter had begun +to wither their resolutions to be amiable to one another, to dull their +wits, to stale their stories, or to give so wide a currency to their +sayings that they could not freely risk them with every one. + +Westover had thought it best to be frank with the leading lady of his +class, when she said she should be delighted to receive for him, and +would provide suitable young ladies to pour: a brunette for the tea, and +a blonde for the chocolate. She took his scrupulosity very lightly when +he spoke of Mrs. Vostrand's educational sojourn in Europe; she laughed +and said she knew the type, and the situation was one of the most +obvious phases of the American marriage. + +He protested in vain that Mrs. Vostrand was not the type; she laughed +again, and said, Oh, types were never typical. But she was hospitably +gracious both to her and to Miss Genevieve; she would not allow that the +mother was not the type when Westover challenged her experience, but she +said they were charming, and made haste to get rid of the question with +the vivid demand: “But who was your young friend who ought to have worn +a lion-skin and carried a club?” + +Westover by this time disdained palliation. He said that Jeff was the +son of the landlady at Lion's Head Mountain, which he had painted so +much, and he was now in his second year at Harvard, where he was going +to make a lawyer of himself; and this interested the lady. She asked +if he had talent, and a number of other things about him and about his +mother; and Westover permitted himself to be rather graphic in telling +of his acquaintance with Mrs. Durgin. + + + + +XVIII. + +After all, it was rather a simple-hearted thing of Westover to have +either hoped or feared very much for the Vostrands. Society, in the +sense of good society, can always take care of itself, and does so +perfectly. In the case of Mrs. Vostrand some ladies who liked Westover +and wished to be civil to him asked her and her daughter to other +afternoon teas, shook hands with them at their coming, and said, when +they went, they were sorry they must be going so soon. In the crowds +people recognized them now and then, both of those who had met them +at Westover's studio, and of those who had met them at Florence and +Lausanne. But if these were merely people of fashion they were readily, +rid of the Vostrands, whom the dullest among them quickly perceived not +to be of their own sort, somehow. Many of the ladies of Westover's class +made Genevieve promise to let them paint her; and her beauty and her +grace availed for several large dances at the houses of more daring +spirits, where the daughters made a duty of getting partners for her, +and discharged it conscientiously. But there never was an approach to +more intimate hospitalities, and toward the end of February, when good +society in Boston goes southward to indulge a Lenten grief at Old Point +Comfort, Genevieve had so many vacant afternoons and evenings at +her disposal that she could not have truthfully pleaded a previous +engagement to the invitations Jeff Durgin made her. They were chiefly +for the theatre, and Westover saw him with her and her mother at +different plays; he wondered how Jeff had caught on to the notion of +asking Mrs. Vostrand to come with them. + +Jeff's introductions at Westover's tea had not been many, and they had +not availed him at all. He had been asked to no Boston houses, and when +other students, whom he knew, were going in to dances, the whole winter +he was socially as quiet, but for the Vostrands, as at the Mid-year +Examinations. Westover could not resent the neglect of society in his +case, and he could not find that he quite regretted it; but he thought +it characteristically nice of Mrs. Vostrand to make as much of the +friendless fellow as she fitly could. He had no doubt but her tact would +be equal to his management in every way, and that she could easily see +to it that he did not become embarrassing to her daughter or herself. + +One day, after the east wind had ceased to blow the breath of the +ice-fields of Labrador against the New England coast, and the buds on +the trees along the mall between the lawns of the avenue were venturing +forth in a hardy experiment of the Boston May, Mrs. Vostrand asked +Westover if she had told him that Mr. Vostrand was actually coming on to +Boston. He rejoiced with her in this prospect, and he reciprocated +the wish which she said Mr. Vostrand had always had for a meeting with +himself. + +A fortnight later, when the leaves had so far inured themselves to the +weather as to have fully expanded, she announced another letter from +Mr. Vostrand, saying that, after all, he should not be able to come to +Boston, but hoped to be in New York before she sailed. + +“Sailed!” cried Westover. + +“Why, yes! Didn't you know we were going to sail in June? I thought I +had told you!” + +“No--” + +“Why, yes. We must go out to poor Checco, now; Mr. Vostrand insists +upon that. If ever we are a united family again, Mr. Westover--if +Mr. Vostrand can arrange his business, when Checco is ready to enter +Harvard--I mean to take a house in Boston. I'm sure I should be +contented to live nowhere else in America. The place has quite bewitched +me--dear old, sober, charming Boston! I'm sure I should like to live +here all the rest of my life. But why in the world do people go out of +town so early? Those houses over there have been shut for a whole month +past!” + +They were sitting at Mrs. Vostrand's window looking out on the avenue, +where the pale globular electrics were swimming like jelly-fish in the +clear evening air, and above the ranks of low trees the houses on the +other side were close-shuttered from basement to attic. + +Westover answered: “Some go because they have such pleasant houses at +the shore, and some because they want to dodge their taxes.” + +“To dodge their taxes?” she repeated, and he had to explain how if +people were in their country-houses before the 1st of May they would +not have to pay the high personal tax of the city; and she said that she +would write that to Mr. Vostrand; it would be another point in favor of +Boston. Women, she declared, would never have thought of such a +thing; she denounced them as culpably ignorant of so many matters that +concerned them, especially legal matters. “And you think,” she asked, +“that Mr. Durgin will be a good lawyer? That he will-distinguish +himself?” + +Westover thought it rather a short-cut to Jeff from the things they had +been talking of, but if she wished to speak of him he had no reason to +oppose her wish. “I've heard it's all changed a good deal. There are +still distinguished lawyers, and lawyers who get on, but they don't +distinguish themselves in the old way so much, and they get on best by +becoming counsel for some powerful corporation.” + +“And you think he has talent?” she pursued. “For that, I mean.” + +“Oh, I don't know,” said Westover. “I think he has a good head. He can +do what he likes within certain limits, and the limits are not all on +the side I used to fancy. He baffles me. But of late I fancy you've seen +rather more of him than I have.” + +“I have urged him to go more to you. But,” said Mrs. Vostrand, with a +burst of frankness, “he thinks you don't like him.” + +“He's wrong,” said Westover. “But I might dislike him very much.” + +“I see what you mean,” said Mrs. Vostrand, “and I'm glad you've been +so frank with me. I've been so interested in Mr. Durgin, so interested! +Isn't he very young?” + +The question seemed a bit of indirection to Westover. But he answered +directly enough. “He's rather old for a Sophomore, I believe. He's +twenty-two.” + +“And Genevieve is twenty. Mr. Westover, may I trust you with something?” + +“With everything, I hope, Mrs. Vostrand.” + +“It's about Genevieve. Her father is so opposed to her making a foreign +marriage. It seems to be his one great dread. And, of course, she's very +much exposed to it, living abroad so much with me, and I feel doubly +bound on that account to respect her father's opinions, or even +prejudices. Before we left Florence--in fact, last winter--there was a +most delightful young officer wished to marry her. I don't know that +she cared anything for him, though he was everything that I could have +wished: handsome, brilliant, accomplished, good family; everything +but rich, and that was what Mr. Vostrand objected to; or, rather, he +objected to putting up, as he called it, the sum that Captain Grassi +would have had to deposit with the government before he was allowed to +marry. You know how it is with the poor fellows in the army, there; +I don't understand the process exactly, but the sum is something like +sixty thousand francs, I believe; and poor Gigi hadn't it: I always +called him Gigi, but his name is Count Luigi de' Popolani Grassi; and he +is descended from one of the old republican families of Florence. He is +so nice! Mr. Vostrand was opposed to him from the beginning, and as soon +as he heard of the sixty thousand francs, he utterly refused. He called +it buying a son-in-law, but I don't see why he need have looked at it in +that light. However, it was broken off, and we left Florence--more +for poor Gigi's sake than for Genevieve's, I must say. He was quite +heart-broken; I pitied him.” + +Her voice had a tender fall in the closing words, and Westover could +fancy how sweet she would make her compassion to the young man. She +began several sentences aimlessly, and he suggested, to supply the +broken thread of her discourse rather than to offer consolation, while +her eyes seemed to wander with her mind, and ranged the avenue up and +down: “Those foreign marriages are not always successful.” + +“No, they are not,” she assented. “But don't you think they're better +with Italians than with Germans, for instance.” + +“I don't suppose the Italians expect their wives to black their boots, +but I've heard that they beat them, sometimes.” + +“In exaggerated cases, perhaps they do,” Mrs. Vostrand admitted. “And, +of course,” she added, thoughtfully, “there is nothing like a purely +American marriage for happiness.” + +Westover wondered how she really regarded her own marriage, but she +never betrayed any consciousness of its variance from the type. + + + + +XIX. + +A young couple came strolling down the avenue who to Westover's artistic +eye first typified grace and strength, and then to his more personal +perception identified themselves as Genevieve Vostrand and Jeff Durgin. + +They faltered before one of the benches beside the mall, and he seemed +to be begging her to sit down. She cast her eyes round till they must +have caught the window of her mother's apartment; then, as if she felt +safe under it, she sank into the seat and Jeff put himself beside her. +It was quite too early yet for the simple lovers who publicly notify +their happiness by the embraces and hand-clasps everywhere evident in +our parks and gardens; and a Boston pair of social tradition would not +have dreamed of sitting on a bench in Commonwealth Avenue at any hour. +But two such aliens as Jeff and Miss Vostrand might very well do so; and +Westover sympathized with their bohemian impulse. + +Mrs. Vostrand and he watched them awhile, in talk that straggled away +from them, and became more and more distraught in view of them. Jeff +leaned forward, and drew on the ground with the point of his stick; +Genevieve held her head motionless at a pensive droop. It was only their +backs that Westover could see, and he could not, of course, make out +a syllable of what was effectively their silence; but all the same he +began to feel as if he were peeping and eavesdropping. Mrs. Vostrand +seemed not to share his feeling, and there was no reason why he should +have it if she had not. He offered to go, but she said, No, no; he must +not think of it till Genevieve came in; and she added some banalities +about her always scolding when she had missed one of his calls; they +would be so few, now, at the most. + +“Why, do you intend to go so soon?” he asked. + +She did not seem to hear him, and he could see that she was watching +the young people intently. Jeff had turned his face up toward Genevieve, +without lifting his person, and was saying something she suddenly shrank +back from. She made a start as if to rise, but he put out his hand in +front of her, beseechingly or compellingly, and she sank down again. +But she slowly shook her head at what he was saying, and turned her face +toward him so that it gave her profile to the spectators. In that light +and at that distance it was impossible to do more than fancy anything +fateful in the words which she seemed to be uttering; but Westover chose +to fancy this. Jeff waited a moment in apparent silence, after she had +spoken. He sat erect and faced her, and this gave his profile, too. He +must have spoken, for she shook her head again; and then, at other words +from him, nodded assentingly. Then she listened motionlessly while he +poured a rapid stream of visible but inaudible words. He put out his +hand, as if to take hers, but she put it behind her; Westover could see +it white there against the belt of her dark dress. + +Jeff went on more vehemently, but she remained steadfast, slowly shaking +her head. When he ended she spoke, and with something of his own energy; +he made a gesture of submission, and when she rose he rose, too. She +stood a moment, and with a gentle and almost entreating movement she put +out her hand to him. He stood looking down, with both his hands resting +on the top of his stick, as if ignoring her proffer. Then he suddenly +caught her hand, held it a moment; dropped it, and walked quickly away +without looking back. Genevieve ran across the lawn and roadway toward +the house. + +“Oh, must, you go?” Mrs. Vostrand said to Westover. He found that he had +probably risen in sympathy with Jeff's action. He was not aware of +an intention of going, but he thought he had better not correct Mrs. +Vostrand's error. + +“Yes, I really must, now,” he said. + +“Well, then,” she returned, distractedly, “do come often.” + +He hurried out to avoid meeting Genevieve. He passed her, on the public +stairs of the house, but he saw that she did not recognize him in the +dim light. + +Late that night he was startled by steps that seemed to be seeking their +way up the stairs to his landing, and then by a heavy knock on his door. +He opened it, and confronted Jeff Durgin. + +“May I come in, Mr. Westover?” he asked, with unwonted deference. + +“Yes, come in,” said Westover, with no great relish, setting his door +open, and then holding onto it a moment, as if he hoped that, having +come in, Jeff might instantly go out again. + +His reluctance was lost upon Jeff, who said, unconscious of keeping his +hat on: “I want to talk with you--I want to tell you something--” + +“All right. Won't you sit down?” + +At this invitation Jeff seemed reminded to take his hat off, and he put +it on the floor beside his chair. “I'm not in a scrape, this time--or, +rather, I'm in the worst kind of a scrape, though it isn't the kind that +you want bail for.” + +“Yes,” Westover prompted. + +“I don't know whether you've noticed--and if you haven't it don't +make any difference--that I've seemed to--care a good deal for Miss +Vostrand?” + +Westover saw no reason why he should not be frank, and said: “Too much, +I've fancied sometimes, for a student in his Sophomore year.” + +“Yes, I know that. Well, it's over, whether it was too much or too +little.” He laughed in a joyless, helpless way, and looked deprecatingly +at Westover. “I guess I've been making a fool of myself--that's all.” + +“It's better to make a fool of one's self than to make a fool of some +one else,” said Westover, oracularly. + +“Yes,” said Jeff, apparently finding nothing more definite in the oracle +than people commonly find in oracles. “But I think,” he went on, with +a touch of bitterness, “that her mother might have told me that she was +engaged--or the same as engaged.” + +“I don't know that she was bound to take you seriously, or to suppose +you took yourself so, at your age and with your prospects in life. If +you want to know,”--Westover faltered, and then went on--“she began to +be kind to you because she was afraid that you might think she didn't +take your coming home second-cabin in the right way; and one thing led +to another. You mustn't blame her for what's happened.” + +Westover defended Mrs. Vostrand, but he did not feel strong in her +defence; he was not sure that Durgin was quite wrong, absurd as he had +been. He sat down and looked up at his visitor under his brows. + +“What are you here for, Jeff? Not to complain of Mrs. Vostrand?” + +Jeff gave a short, shamefaced laugh. “No, it's this you're such an old +friend of Mrs. Vostrand's that I thought she'd be pretty sure to +tell you about it; and I wanted to ask--to ask--that you wouldn't say +anything to mother.” + +“You are a boy! I shouldn't think of meddling with your affairs,” said +Westover; he got up again, and Jeff rose, too. + +Before noon the next day a district messenger brought Westover a letter +which he easily knew, from, the now belated tall, angular hand, to be +from Mrs. Vostrand. It announced on a much criss-crossed little sheet +that she and Genevieve were inconsolably taking a very sudden departure, +and were going on the twelve-o'clock train to New York, where Mr. +Vostrand was to meet them. “In regard to that affair which I mentioned +last night, he withdraws his objections (we have had an overnight +telegram), and so I suppose all will go well. I cannot tell you how +sorry we both are not to see you again; you have been such a dear, good +friend to us; and if you don't hear from us again at New York, you will +from the other side. Genevieve had some very strange news when she came +in, and we both feel very sorry for the poor young fellow. You must +console him from us all you can. I did not know before how much she was +attached to Gigi: but it turned out very fortunately that she could say +she considered herself bound to him, and did everything to save Mr. D.'s +feelings.” + + + + +XX. + +Westover was not at Lion's Head again till the summer before Jeff's +graduation. In the mean time the hotel had grown like a living thing. He +could not have imagined wings in connection with the main edifice, +but it had put forth wings--one that sheltered a new and enlarged +dining-room, with two stories of chambers above, and another that +hovered a parlor and ball-room under a like provision of chambers. An +ell had been pushed back on the level behind the house; the barn had +been moved farther to the southward, and on its old site a laundry +built, with quarters for the help over it. All had been carefully, +frugally, yet sufficiently done, and Westover was not surprised to learn +that it was all the effect of Jackson Durgin's ingenuity and energy. +Mrs. Durgin confessed to having no part in it; but she had kept pace, +with Cynthia Whitwell's help, in the housekeeping. As Jackson had +cautiously felt his way to the needs of their public in the enlargement +and rearrangement of the hotel, the two housewives had watchfully +studied, not merely the demands, but the half-conscious instincts of +their guests, and had responded to them simply and adequately, in the +spirit of Jackson's exterior and structural improvements. The walls of +the new rooms were left unpapered and their floors uncarpeted; there +were thin rugs put down; the wood-work was merely stained. Westover +found that he need not to ask especially for some hot dish at night; +there was almost the abundance of a dinner, though dinner was still at +one o'clock. + +Mrs. Durgin asked him the first day if he would not like to go into the +serving-room and see it while they were serving dinner. She tried to +conceal her pride in the busy scene--the waitresses pushing in through +one valve of the double-hinged doors with their empty trays, and out +through the other with the trays full laden; delivering their dishes +with the broken victual at the wicket, where the untouched portions were +put aside and the rest poured into the waste; following in procession +along the reeking steamtable, with its great tanks of soup and +vegetables, where, the carvers stood with the joints and the trussed +fowls smoking before them, which they sliced with quick sweeps of their +blades, or waiting their turn at the board where the little plates with +portions of fruit and dessert stood ready. All went regularly on amid a +clatter of knives and voices and dishes; and the clashing rise and fall +of the wire baskets plunging the soiled crockery into misty depths, +whence it came up clean and dry without the touch of finger or towel. +Westover could not deny that there were elements of the picturesque +in it, so that he did not respond quite in kind to Jeff's +suggestion--“Scene for a painter, Mr. Westover.” + +The young fellow followed satirically at his mother's elbow, and made a +mock of her pride in it, trying to catch Westover's eye when she led him +through the kitchen with its immense range, and introduced him to a new +chef, who wiped his hand on his white apron to offer it to Westover. + +“Don't let him get away without seeing the laundry, mother,” her son +jeered at a final air of absent-mindedness in her, and she defiantly +accepted his challenge. + +“Jeff's mad because he wasn't consulted,” she explained, “and because we +don't run the house like his one-horse European hotels.” + +“Oh, I'm not in it at all, Mr. Westover,” said the young fellow. “I'm as +much a passenger as you are. The only difference is that I'm allowed to +work my passage.” + +“Well, one thing,” said his mother, “is that we've got a higher class of +boarders than we ever had before. You'll see, Mr. Westover, if you stay +on here till August. There's a class that boards all the year round, and +that knows what a hotel is--about as well as Jeff, I guess. You'll find +'em at the big city houses, the first of the winter, and then they go +down to Floridy or Georgy for February and March; and they get up to +Fortress Monroe in April, and work along north about the middle of May +to them family hotels in the suburbs around Boston; and they stay there +till it's time to go to the shore. They stay at the shore through +July, and then they come here in August, and stay till the leaves turn. +They're folks that live on their money, and they're the very highest +class, I guess. It's a round of gayety with 'em the whole year through.” + +Jeff, from the vantage of his greater worldly experience, was trying +to exchange looks of intelligence with Westover concerning those +hotel-dwellers whom his mother revered as aristocrats; but he did not +openly question her conceptions. “They've told me how they do, some of +the ladies have,” she went on. “They've got the money for it, and they +know how to get the most for their money. Why, Mr. Westover, we've got +rooms in this house, now, that we let for thirty-five to fifty dollars +a week for two persons, and folks like that take 'em right along through +August and September, and want a room apiece. It's different now, I can +tell you, from what it was when folks thought we was killin' 'em if we +wanted ten or twelve dollars.” + +Westover had finished his dinner before this tour of the house began, +and when it was over the two men strolled away together. + +“You see, it's on the regular American lines,” Jeff pursued, after +parting with his mother. “Jackson's done it, and he can't imagine +anything else. I don't say it isn't well done in its way, but the way's +wrong; it's stupid and clumsy.” When they were got so far from the hotel +as to command a prospect of its ungainly mass sprawled upon the plateau, +his smouldering disgust burst out: “Look at it! Did you ever see +anything like it? I wish the damned thing would burn up--or down!” + +Westover was aware in more ways than one of Jeff's exclusion from +authority in the place, where he was constantly set aside from the +management as if his future were so definitely dedicated to another +calling that not even his advice was desired or permitted; and he could +not help sympathizing a little with him when he chafed at his rejection. +He saw a great deal of him, and he thought him quite up to the +average of Harvard's Seniors in some essentials. He had been sobered, +apparently, by experience; his unfortunate love-affair seemed to have +improved him, as the phrase is. + +They had some long walks and long talks together, and in one of them +Jeff opened his mind, if not his heart, to the painter. He wanted to +be the Landlord of the Lion's Head, which he believed he could make the +best hotel in the mountains. He knew, of course, that he could not hope +to make any changes that did not suit his mother and his brother, as +long as they had the control, but he thought they would let him have the +control sooner if his mother could only be got to give up the notion of +his being a lawyer. As nearly as he could guess, she wanted him to be +a lawyer because she did not want him to be a hotel-keeper, and her +prejudice against that was because she believed that selling liquor made +her father a drunkard. + +“Well, now you know enough about me, Mr. Westover, to know that drink +isn't my danger.” + +“Yes, I think I do,” said Westover. + +“I went a little wild in my Freshman year, and I got into that scrape, +but I've never been the worse for liquor since; fact is, I never touch +it now. There isn't any more reason why I should take to drink because I +keep a hotel than Jackson; but just that one time has set mother against +it, and I can't seem to make her understand that once is enough for me. +Why, I should keep a temperance house, here, of course; you can't +do anything else in these days. If I was left to choose between +hotel-keeping and any other life that I know of, I'd choose it every +time,” Jeff went on, after a moment of silence. “I like a hotel. You can +be your own man from the start; the start's made here, and I've helped +to make it. All you've got to do is to have common-sense in the hotel +business, and you're sure to succeed. I believe I've got common-sense, +and I believe I've got some ideas that I can work up into a great +success. The reason that most people fail in the hotel business is that +they waste so much, and the landlord that wastes on his guests can't +treat them well. It's got so now that in the big city houses they can't +make anything on feeding people, and so they try to make it up on the +rooms. I should feed them well--I believe I know how--and I should make +money on my table, as they do in Europe. + +“I've thought a good many things out; my mind runs on it all the time; +but I'm not going to bore you with it now.” + +“Oh, not at all,” said Westover. “I'd like to know what your ideas are.” + +“Well, some time I'll tell you. But look here, Mr. Westover, I wish if +mother gets to talking about me with you that you'd let her know how I +feel. We can't talk together, she and I, without quarrelling about it; +but I guess you could put in a word that would show her I wasn't quite +a fool. She thinks I've gone crazy from seeing the way they do things in +Europe; that I'm conceited and unpatriotic, and I don't know what +all.” Jeff laughed as if with an inner fondness for his mother's +wrong-headedness. + +“And would you be willing to settle down here in the country for +the rest of your life, and throw away your Harvard training on +hotel-keeping?” + +“What do the other fellows do with their Harvard training when they go +into business, as nine-tenths of them do? Business is business, whether +you keep a hotel or import dry-goods or manufacture cotton or run a +railroad or help a big trust to cheat legally. Harvard has got to take +a back seat when you get out of Harvard. But you don't suppose that +keeping a summer hotel would mean living in the country the whole time, +do you? That's the way mother does, but I shouldn't. It isn't good for +the hotel, even. If I had such a place as Lion's Head, I should put a +man and his family into it for the winter to look after it, and I should +go to town myself--to Boston or New York, or I might go to London or +Paris. They're not so far off, and it's so easy to get to them that you +can hardly keep away.” Jeff laughed, and looked up at Westover from the +log where he sat, whittling a pine stick; Westover sat on the stump from +which the log had been felled eight or ten years before. + +“You are modern,” he said. + +“That's what I should do at first. But I don't believe I should have +Lion's Head very long before I had another hotel--in Florida, or the +Georgia uplands, or North Carolina, somewhere. I should take my help +back and forth; it would be as easy to run two hotels as one-easier! It +would keep my hand in. But if you want to know, I'd rather stick here +in the country, year in and year out, and run Lion's Head, than to be a +lawyer and hang round trying to get a case for nine or ten years. Who's +going to support me? Do you suppose I want to live on mother till I'm +forty? She don't think of that. She thinks I can go right into court and +begin distinguishing myself, if I can fight the people off from sending +me to Congress. I'd rather live in the country, anyway. I think town's +the place for winter, or two-three months of it, and after that I +haven't got any use for it. But mother, she's got this old-fashioned +ambition to have me go to a city and set up there. She thinks that if +I was a lawyer in Boston I should be at the top of the heap. But I know +better than that, and so do you; and I want you to give her some little +hint of how it really is: how it takes family and money and a lot of +influence to get to the top in any city.” + +It occurred to Westover, and not for the first time, that the frankest +thing in Jeff Durgin was his disposition to use his friends. It seemed +to him that Jeff was always asking something of him, and it did not +change the fact that in this case he thought him altogether in the +right. He said that if Mrs. Durgin spoke to him of the matter he would +not keep the light from her. He looked behind him, now, for the first +time, in recognition of the place where they had stopped. “Why, this is +Whitwell's Clearing.” + +“Didn't you know it?” Jeff asked. “It changes a good deal every year, +and you haven't been here for awhile, have you?” + +“Not since Mrs. Marven's picnic,” said Westover, and he added, quickly, +to efface the painful association which he must have called up by his +heedless words: + +“The woods have crowded back upon it so. It can't be more than half its +old size.” + +“No,” Jeff assented. He struck his heel against a fragment of the pine +bough he had been whittling, and drove it into the soft ground beside +the log, and said, without looking up from it: “I met that woman at a +dance last winter. It wasn't her dance, but she was running it as if it +were, just the way she did with the picnic. She seemed to want to let +bygones be bygones, and I danced with her daughter. She's a nice girl. +I thought mother did wrong about that.” Now he looked at Westover. “She +couldn't help it, but it wasn't the thing to do. A hotel is a public +house, and you can't act as if it wasn't. If mother hadn't known how to +keep a hotel so well in other ways, she might have ruined the house by +not knowing in a thing like that. But we've got some of the people with +us this year that used to come here when we first took farm-boarders; +mother don't know that they're ever so much nicer, socially, than the +people that take the fifty-dollar rooms.” He laughed, and then he said, +seriously: “If I ever had a son, I don't believe I should let my +pride in him risk doing him mischief. And if you've a mind to let her +understand that you believe I'm set against the law for good and all--” + +“I guess I shall not be your ambassador, so far as that. Why don't you +tell her yourself?” + +“She won't believe me,” said Jeff, with a laugh. “She thinks I don't +know my mind. And I don't like the way we differ when we differ. We +differ more than we mean to. I don't pretend to say I'm always right. +She was right about that other picnic--the one I wanted to make for Mrs. +Vostrand. I suppose,” he ended, unexpectedly, “that you hear from them, +now and then?” + +“No, I don't. I haven't heard from them for a year; not since--You knew +Genevieve was married?” + +“Yes, I knew that,” said Jeff, steadily. + +“I don't quite make it all out. Mr. Vostrand was very much opposed to +it, Mrs. Vostrand told me; but he must have given way at last; and +he must have put up the money.” Jeff looked puzzled, and Westover +explained. “You know the officers in the Italian army--and all the other +armies in Europe, for that matter--have to deposit a certain sum with +the government before they can marry and in the case of Count Grassi, +Mr. Vostrand had to furnish the money.” + +Jeff said, after a moment: “Well, she couldn't help that.” + +“No, the girl wasn't to blame. I don't know that any one was to blame. +But I'm afraid our girls wouldn't marry many titles if their fathers +didn't put up the money.” + +“Well, I don't see why they shouldn't spend their money that way as well +as any other,” said Jeff, and this proof of his impartiality suggested +to Westover that he was not only indifferent to the mercenary +international marriages, which are a scandal to so many of our casuists, +but had quite outlived his passion for the girl concerned in this. + +“At any rate,” Jeff added, “I haven't got anything to say against it. +Mr. Westover, I've always wanted to say one thing to you. Then I came +to your room that night, I wanted to complain of Mrs. Vostrand for +not letting me know about the engagement; and I wasn't man enough to +acknowledge that what you said would account for their letting me make a +fool of myself. But I believe I am now, and I want to say it.” + +“I'm glad you can see it in that way,” said Westover, “and since you do, +I don't mind saying that I think Mrs. Vostrand might have been a little +franker with you without being less kind. She was kind, but she wasn't +quite frank.” + +“Well, it's all over now,” said Jeff, and he rose up and brushed the +whittlings from his knees. “And I guess it's just as well.” + + + + +XXI. + +That afternoon Westover saw Jeff helping Cynthia Whitwell into his +buckboard, and then, after his lively horse had made some paces of a +start, spring to the seat beside her, and bring it to a stand. “Can I +do anything for you over at Lovewell, Mr. Westover?” he called, and he +smiled toward the painter. Then he lightened the reins on the mare's +back; she squared herself for a start in earnest, and flashed down the +sloping hotel road to the highway below, and was lost to sight in the +clump of woods to the southward. + +“That's a good friend of yours, Cynthy,” he said, leaning toward the +girl with a simple comfort in her proximity. She was dressed in a +pale-pink color, with a hat of yet paler pink; without having a great +deal of fashion, she had a good deal of style. She looked bright and +fresh; there was a dash of pink in her cheeks, which suggested the color +of the sweetbrier, its purity and sweetness, and if there was something +in Cynthia's character and temperament that suggested its thorns too, +one still could not deny that she was like that flower. She liked to +shop, and she liked to ride after a good horse, as the neighbors would +have said; she was going over to Lovewell to buy a number of things, +and Jeff Durgin was driving her there with the swift mare that was his +peculiar property. She smiled upon him without the usual reservations +she contrived to express in her smiles. + +“Well, I don't know anybody I'd rather have for my friend than Mr. +Westover.” She added: “He acted like a friend the very first time I saw +him.” + +Jeff laughed with shameless pleasure in the reminiscence her words +suggested. “Well, I did get my come-uppings that time. And I don't know +but he's been a pretty good friend to me, too. I'm not sure he likes me; +but Mr. Westover is a man that could be your friend if he didn't like +you.” + +“What have you done to make him like you?” asked the girl. + +“Nothing!” said Jeff, with a shout of laughter in his conviction. “I've +done a lot of things to make him despise me from the start. But if you +like a person yourself, you want him to like you whether you deserve it +or not.” + +“I don't know as I do.” + +“You say that because you always deserve it. You can't tell how it is +with a fellow like me. I should want you to like me, Cynthy, whatever +you thought of me.” He looked round into her face, but she turned it +away. + +They had struck the level, long for the hill country, at the foot of +the hotel road, and the mare, that found herself neither mounting nor +descending a steep, dropped from the trot proper for an acclivity into a +rapid walk. + +“This mare can walk like a Kentucky horse,” said Jeff. “I believe I +could teach her single-foot.” He added, with a laugh, “If I knew how,” + and now Cynthia laughed with him. + +“I was just going to say that.” + +“Yes, you don't lose many chances to give me a dig, do you?” + +“Oh, I don't know as I look for them. Perhaps I don't need to.” The pine +woods were deep on either side. They whispered in the thin, sweet wind, +and gave out their odor in the high, westering sun. They covered with +their shadows the road that ran velvety between them. + +“This is nice,” said Jeff, letting himself rest against the back of the +seat. He stretched his left arm along the top, and presently it dropped +and folded itself about the waist of the girl. + +“You may take your arm away, Jeff,” she said, quietly. + +“Why?” + +“Because it has no right there, for one thing!” She drew herself a +little aside and looked round at him. “You wouldn't put it round a town +girl if you were riding with her.” + +“I shouldn't be riding with her: Girls don't go buggy-riding in town any +more,” said Jeff, brutally. + +“Then I shall know what to do the next time you ask me.” + +“Oh, they'd go quick enough if I asked them up here in the country. +Etiquette don't count with them when they're on a vacation.” + +“I'm not on a vacation; so it counts with me. Please take your arm +away,” said Cynthia. + +“Oh, all right. But I shouldn't object to your putting your arm around +me.” + +“You will never have the chance.” + +“Why are you so hard on me, Cynthy?” asked Jeff. “You didn't used to be +so.” + +“People change.” + +“Do I?” + +“Not for the better.” + +Jeff was dumb. She was pleased with her hit, and laughed. But her laugh +did not encourage him to put his arm round her again. He let the mare +walk on, and left her to resume the conversation at whatever point she +would. + +She made no haste to resume it. At last she said, with sufficient +apparent remoteness from the subject they had dropped: “Jeff, I don't +know whether you want me to talk about it. But I guess I ought to, even +if it isn't my place exactly. I don't think Jackson's very well, this +summer.” + +Jeff faced round toward her. “What makes you think he isn't well?” + +“He's weaker. Haven't you noticed it?” + +“Yes, I have noticed that. He's worked down; that's all.” + +“No, that isn't all. But if you don't think so--” + +“I want to know what you think, Cynthy,” said Jeff, with the amorous +resentment all gone from his voice. “Sometimes folks outside notice +the signs more--I don't mean that you're an outsider, as far as we're +concerned--” + +She put by that point. “Father's noticed it, too; and he's with Jackson +a good deal.” + +“I'll look after it. If he isn't so well, he's got to have a doctor. +That medium's stuff can't do him any good. Don't you think he ought to +have a doctor?” + +“Oh yes.” + +“You don't think a doctor can do him much good?” + +“He ought to have one,” said the girl, noncommittally. + +“Cynthia, I've noticed that Jackson was weak, too; and it's no use +pretending that he's simply worked down. I believe he's worn out. Do you +think mother's ever noticed it?” + +“I don't believe she has.” + +“It's the one thing I can't very well make up my mind to speak to her +about. I don't know what she would do.” He did not say, “If she lost +Jackson,” but Cynthia knew he meant that, and they were both silent. “Of +course,” he went on, “I know that she places a great deal of dependence +upon you, but Jackson's her main stay. He's a good man, and he's a good +son. I wish I'd always been half as good.” + +Cynthia did not protest against his self-reproach as he possibly hoped +she would. She said: “I think Jackson's got a very good mind. He reads a +great deal, and he's thought a great deal, and when it comes to talking, +I never heard any one express themselves better. The other night, we +were out looking at the stars--I came part of the way home with him; +I didn't like to let him go alone, he seemed so feeble and he got to +showing me Mars. He thinks it's inhabited, and he's read all that the +astronomers say about it, and the seas and the canals that they've found +on it. He spoke very beautifully about the other life, and then he spoke +about death.” Cynthia's voice broke, and she pulled her handkerchief out +of her belt, and put it to her eyes. Jeff's heart melted in him at the +sight; he felt a tender affection for her, very unlike the gross content +he had enjoyed in her presence before, and he put his arm round her +again, but this time almost unconsciously, and drew her toward him. She +did not repel him; she even allowed her head to rest a moment on his +shoulder; though she quickly lifted it, and drew herself away, not +resentfully, it seemed, but for her greater freedom in talking. + +“I don't believe he's going to die,” Jeff said, consolingly, more as if +it were her brother than his that he meant. “But he's a very sick man, +and he's got to knock off and go somewhere. It won't do for him to pass +another winter here. He must go to California, or Colorado; they'd be +glad to have him there, either of them; or he can go to Florida, or over +to Italy. It won't matter how long he stays--” + +“What are you talking about, Jeff Durgin?” Cynthia demanded, severely. +“What would your mother do? What would she do this winter?” + +“That brings me to something, Cynthia,” said Jeff, “and I don't want you +to say anything till I've got through. I guess I could help mother run +the place as well as Jackson, and I could stay here next winter.” + +“You?” + +“Now, you let me talk! My mind's made up about one thing: I'm not going +to be a lawyer. I don't want to go back to Harvard. I'm going to keep a +hotel, and, if I don't keep one here at Lion's Head, I'm going to keep +it somewhere else.” + +“Have you told your mother?” + +“Not yet: I wanted to hear what you would say first.” + +“I? Oh, I haven't got anything to do with it,” said Cynthia. + +“Yes, you have! You've got everything to do with it, if you'll say one +thing first. Cynthia, you know how I feel about you. It's been so ever +since we were boy and girl here. I want you to promise to marry me. Will +you?” + +The girl seemed neither surprised nor very greatly pleased; perhaps her +pleasure had spent itself in that moment of triumphant expectation when +she foresaw what was coming, or perhaps she was preoccupied in clearing +the way in her own mind to a definite result. + +“What do you say, Cynthia?” Jeff pursued, with more injury than +misgiving in his voice at her delay in answering. “Don't you-care for +me?” + +“Oh yes, I presume I've always done that--ever since we were boy and +girl, as you say. But----” + +“Well?” said Jeff, patiently, but not insecurely. + +“Have you?” + +“Have I what?” + +“Always cared for me.” + +He could not find his voice quite as promptly as before. He cleared his +throat before he asked: “Has Mr. Westover been saying anything about +me?” + +“I don't know what you mean, exactly; but I presume you do.” + +“Well, then--I always expected to tell you--I did have a fancy for that +girl, for Miss Vostrand, and I told her so. It's like something that +never happened. She wouldn't have me. That's all.” + +“And you expect me to take what she wouldn't have?” + +“If you like to call it that. But I should call it taking a man that had +been out of his head for a while, and had come to his senses again.” + +“I don't know as I should ever feel safe with a man that had been out of +his head once.” + +“You wouldn't find many men that hadn't,” said Jeff, with a laugh that +was rather scornful of her ignorance. + +“No, I presume not,” she sighed. “She was beautiful, and I believe she +was good, too. She was very nice. Perhaps I feel strangely about it. +But, if she hadn't been so nice, I shouldn't have been so willing that +you should have cared for her.” + +“I suppose I don't understand,” said Jeff, “but I know I was hard hit. +What's the use? It's over. She's married. I can't go back and unlive it +all. But if you want time to think--of course you do--I've taken time +enough--” + +He was about to lift the reins on the mare's back as a sign to her that +the talk was over for the present, and to quicken her pace, when Cynthia +put out her hand and laid it on his, and said with a certain effect +of authority: “I shouldn't want you should give up your last year in +Harvard.” + +“Just as you say, Cynthy;” and in token of intelligence he wound his arm +round her neck and kissed her. It was not the first kiss by any means; +in the country kisses are not counted very serious, or at all binding, +and Cynthia was a country girl; but they both felt that this kiss sealed +a solemn troth between them, and that a common life began for them with +it. + + + + +XXII. + +Cynthia came back in time to go into the dining-room and see that all +was in order there for supper before the door opened. The waitresses +knew that she had been out riding, as they called it, with Jeff Durgin; +the fact had spread electrically to them where they sat in a shady angle +of the hotel listening to one who read a novel aloud, and skipped all +but the most exciting love parts. They conjectured that the pair had +gone to Lovewell, but they knew nothing more, and the subtlest of +them would not have found reason for further conjecture in Cynthia's +behavior, when she came in and scanned the tables and the girls' dresses +and hair, where they stood ranged against the wall. She was neither +whiter nor redder than usual, and her nerves and her tones were under as +good control as a girl's ever are after she has been out riding with a +fellow. It was not such a great thing, anyway, to ride with Jeff Durgin. +First and last, nearly all the young lady boarders had been out with +him, upon one errand or another to Lovewell. + +After supper, when the girls had gone over to their rooms in the helps' +quarters, and the guests had gathered in the wide, low office, in the +light of the fire kindled on the hearth to break the evening chill, Jeff +joined Cynthia in her inspection of the dining-room. She always gave it +a last look, to see that it was in perfect order for breakfast, before +she went home for the night. Jeff went home with her; he was impatient +of her duties, but he was in no hurry when they stole out of the side +door together under the stars, and began to stray sidelong down the hill +over the dewless grass. + +He lingered more and more as they drew near her father's house, in the +abandon of a man's love. He wished to give himself solely up to it, to +think and to talk of nothing else, after a man's fashion. But a woman's +love is no such mere delight. It is serious, practical. For her it is +all future, and she cannot give herself wholly up to any present moment +of it, as a man does. + +“Now, Jeff,” she said, after a certain number of partings, in which she +had apparently kept his duty clearly in mind, “you had better go home +and tell your mother.” + +“Oh, there's time enough for that,” he began. + +“I want you to tell her right away, or there won't be anything to tell.” + +“Is that so?” he joked back. “Well, if I must, I must, I suppose. But I +didn't think you'd take the whip-hand so soon, Cynthia.” + +“Oh, I don't ever want to take the whip-hand with you, Jeff. Don't make +me!” + +“Well, I won't, then. But what are you in such a hurry to have mother +know for? She's not going to object. And if she does--” + +“It isn't that,” said the girl, quickly. “If I had to go round a single +day with your mother hiding this from her, I should begin to hate you. I +couldn't bear the concealment. I shall tell father as soon as I go in.” + +“Oh, your father 'll be all right, of course.” + +“Yes, he'll be all right, but if he wouldn't, and I knew it, I should +have to tell him, all the same. Now, good-night. Well, there, then; and +there! Now, let me go!” + +She paused for a moment in her own room, to smooth her tumbled hair, +and try to identify herself in her glass. Then she went into the +sitting-room, where she found her father pulled up to the table, with +his hat on, and poring over a sheet of hieroglyphics, which represented +the usual evening with planchette. + +“Have you been to help Jackson up?” she asked. + +“Well, I wanted to, but he wouldn't hear of it. He's feelin' ever so +much better to-night, and he wanted to go alone. I just come in.” + +“Yes, you've got your hat on yet.” + +Whitwell put his hand up and found that his daughter was right. He +laughed, and said: “I guess I must 'a' forgot it. We've had the most +interestin' season with plantchette that I guess we've about ever had. +She's said something here--” + +“Well, never mind; I've got something more important to say than +plantchette has,” said Cynthia, and she pulled the sheet away from under +her father's eyes. + +This made him look up at her. “Why, what's happened?” + +“Nothing. Jeff Durgin has asked me to marry him.” + +“He has!” The New England training is not such as to fit people for the +expression of strong emotion, and the best that Whitwell found himself +able to do in view of the fact was to pucker his mouth for a whistle +which did not come. + +“Yes--this afternoon,” said Cynthia, lifelessly. The tension of her +nerves relaxed in a languor which was evident even to her father, though +his eyes still wandered to the sheet she had taken from him. + +“Well, you don't seem over and above excited about it. Did--did +your--What did you say--” + +“How should I know what I said? What do you think of it, father?” + +“I don't know as I ever give the subject much attention,” said the +philosopher. “I always meant to take it out of him, somehow, if he got +to playin' the fool.” + +“Then you wanted I should accept him?” + +“What difference 'd it make what I wanted? That what you done?” + +“Yes, I've accepted him,” said the girl, with a sigh. “I guess I've +always expected to.” + +“Well, I thought likely it would come to that, myself. All I can say, +Cynthy, is 't he's a lucky feller.” + +Whitwell leaned back, bracing his knees against the table, which was one +of his philosophic poses. “I have sometimes believed that Jeff Durgin +was goin' to turn out a blackguard. He's got it in him. He's as like his +gran'father as two peas, and he was an old devil. But you got to account +in all these here heredity cases for counteractin' influences. The +Durgins are as good as wheat, right along, all of 'em; and I guess Mis' +Durgin's mother must have been a pretty good woman too. Mis' Durgin's +all right, too, if she has got a will of her own.” Whitwell returned +from his scientific inquiry to ask: “How 'll she take it?” + +“I don't know,” said Cynthia, dreamily, but without apparent misgiving. +“That's Jeff's lookout.” + +“So 'tis. I guess she won't make much fuss. A woman never likes to see +her son get married; but you've been a kind of daughter to her so long. +Well, I guess that part of it 'll be all right. Jackson,” said Whitwell, +in a tone of relief, as if turning from an irrelevant matter to +something of real importance, “was down here to-night tryin' to ring +up some them spirits from the planet Mars. Martians, he calls 'em. His +mind's got to runnin' a good deal on Mars lately. I guess it's this +apposition that they talk about that does it. Mars comin' so much nearer +the earth by a million of miles or so, it stands to reason that he +should be more influenced by the minds on it. I guess it's a case o' +that telepathy that Mr. Westover tells about. I judge that if he kept at +it before Mars gits off too far again he might make something out of it. +I couldn't seem to find much sense in what plantchette done to-night; we +couldn't either of us; but she has her spells when you can't make head +or tail of her. But mebbe she's just leadin' up to something, the way +she did about that broken shaft when Jeff come home. We ha'n't ever made +out exactly what she meant by that yet.” + +Whitwell paused, and Cynthia seized the advantage of his getting round +to Jeff again. “He wanted to give up going to Harvard this last year, +but I wouldn't let him.” + +“Jeff did?” asked her father. “Well, you done a good thing that time, +anyway, Cynthy. His mother 'd never get over it.” + +“There's something else she's got to get over, and I don't know how she +ever will. He's going to give up the law.” + +“Give up the law!” + +“Yes. Don't tease, father! He says he's never cared about it, and he +wants to keep a hotel. I thought that I'd ought to tell him how we felt +about Jackson's having a rest and going off somewhere; and he wanted +to begin at once. But I said if he left off the last year at Harvard I +wouldn't have anything to do with him.” + +Whitwell put his hand in his pocket for his knife, and mechanically +looked down for a stick to whittle. In default of any, he scratched his +head. “I guess she'll make it warm for him. She's had her mind set on +his studyin' law so long, 't she won't give up in a hurry. She can't see +that Jackson ain't fit to help her run the hotel any more--till he's had +a rest, anyway--and I believe she thinks her and Frank could run it--and +you. She'll make an awful kick,” said Whitwell, solemnly. “I hope you +didn't encourage him, Cynthy?” + +“I should encourage him,” said the girl. “He's got the right to shape +his own life, and nobody else has got the right to do it; and I should +tell his mother so, if she ever said anything to me about it.” + +“All right,” said Whitwell. “I suppose you know what you're about.” + +“I do, father. Jeff would make a good landlord; he's got ideas about a +hotel, and I can see that they're the right ones. He's been out in the +world, and he's kept his eyes open. He will make Lion's Head the best +hotel in the mountains.” + +“It's that already.” + +“He doesn't think it's half as good as he can make it.” + +“It wouldn't be half what it is now, if it wa'n't for you and Frank.” + +“I guess he understands that,” said Cynthia. “Frank would be the clerk.” + +“Got it all mapped out!” said Whitwell, proudly, in his turn. “Look out +you don't slip up in your calculations. That's all.” + +“I guess we cha'n't slip up.” + + + + +XIII. + +Jeff came into the ugly old family parlor, where his mother sat mending +by the kerosene-lamp which she had kept through all the household +changes, and pushed enough of her work aside from the corner of the +table to rest his arm upon it. + +“Mother, I want you to listen to me, and to wait till I get done. Will +you?” + +She looked up at him over her spectacles from the stocking she was +darning; the china egg gleamed through the frayed place. “What notion +have you got in your head, now?” + +“It's about Jackson. He isn't well. He's got to leave off work and go +away.” + +The mother's hand dropped at the end of the yarn she had drawn through +the stocking heel, and she stared at Jeff. Then she resumed her work +with the decision expressed in her tone. “Your father lived to be sixty +years old, and Jackson a'n't forty! The doctor said there wa'n't any +reason why he shouldn't live as long as his father did.” + +“I'm not saying he won't live to a hundred. I'm saying he oughtn't to +stay another winter here,” Jeff said, decisively. + +Mrs. Durgin was silent for a time, and then she said. “Jeff, is that +your notion about Jackson, or whose is it?” + +“It's mine, now.” + +Mrs. Durgin waited a moment. Then she began, with a feeling quite at +variance with her words: + +“Well, I'll thank Cynthy Whit'ell to mind her own business! Of course,” + she added, and in what followed her feeling worked to the surface in her +words, “I know 't she thinks the world of Jackson, and he does of her; +and I presume she means well. I guess she'd be more apt to notice, if +there was any change, than what I should. What did she say?” + +Jeff told, as nearly as he could remember, and he told what Cynthia and +he had afterward jointly worked out as to the best thing for Jackson +to do. Mrs. Durgin listened frowningly, but not disapprovingly, as it +seemed; though at the end she asked: “And what am I going to do, with +Jackson gone?” + +Jeff laughed, with his head down. “Well, I guess you and Cynthy could +run it, with Frank and Mr. Whitwell.” + +“Mr. Whit'ell!” said Mrs. Durgin, concentrating in her accent of his +name the contempt she could not justly pour out on the others. + +“Oh,” Jeff went on, “I did think that I could take hold with you, if you +could bring yourself to let me off this last year at Harvard.” + +“Jeff!” said his mother, reproachfully. “You know you don't mean that +you'd give up your last year in college?” + +“I do mean it, but I don't expect you to do it; and I don't ask it. I +suggested it to Cynthy, when we got to talking it over, and she saw it +wouldn't do.” + +“Well, she showed some sense that time,” Mrs. Durgin said. + +“I don't know when Cynthy hasn't shown sense; except once, and then I +guess it was my fault.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Why, this afternoon I asked her to marry me some time, and she said she +would.” He looked at his mother and laughed, and then he did not laugh. +He had expected her to be pleased; he had thought to pave the way with +this confession for the declaration of his intention not to study law, +and to make his engagement to Cynthia serve him in reconciling his +mother to the other fact. But a menacing suspense followed his words. + +His mother broke out at last: “You asked Cynthy Whit'ell to marry you! +And she said she would! Well, I can tell her she won't, then!” + +“And I can tell you she will!” Jeff stormed back. He rose to his feet +and stood over his mother. + +She began steadily, as if he had not spoken. “If that designin'--” + +“Look out, mother! Don't you say anything against Cynthia! She's been +the best girl to you in the world, and you know it. She's been as true +to you as Jackson has himself. She hasn't got a selfish bone in her +body, and she's so honest she couldn't design anything against you or +any one, unless she told you first. Now you take that back! Take it +back! She's no more designing than--than you are!” + +Mrs. Durgin was not moved by his storming, but she was inwardly +convinced of error. “I do take it back. Cynthy is all right. She's all +you say and more. It's your fault, then, and you've got yourself to +thank, for whosever fault it is, she'll pack--” + +“If Cynthy packs, I pack!” said Jeff. “Understand that. The moment she +leaves this house I leave it, too, and I'll marry her anyway. Frank 'd +leave and--and--Pshaw! What do you care for that? But I don't know what +you mean! I always thought you liked Cynthy and respected her. I didn't +believe I could tell you a thing that would please you better than that +she had said she would have me. But if it don't, all right.” + +Mrs. Durgin held her peace in bewilderment; she stared at her son with +dazed eyes, under the spectacles lifted above her forehead. She felt +a change of mood in his unchanged tone of defiance, and she met him +half-way. “I tell you I take back what I called Cynthia, and I told you +so. But--but I didn't ever expect you to marry her.” + +“Why didn't you? There isn't one of the summer folks to compare with +her. She's got more sense than all of 'em. I've known her ever since I +can remember. Why didn't you expect it?” + +“I didn't expect it.” + +“Oh, I know! You thought I'd see somebody in Boston--some swell girl. +Well, they wouldn't any of them look at me, and if they would, they +wouldn't look at you.” + +“I shouldn't care whether they looked at me or not.” + +“I tell you they wouldn't look at me. You don't understand about these +things, and I do. They marry their own kind, and I'm not their kind, +and I shouldn't be if I was Daniel Webster himself. Daniel Webster! Who +remembers him, or cares for him, or ever did? You don't believe it? You +think that because I've been at Harvard--Oh, can't I make you see it? +I'm what they call a jay in Harvard, and Harvard don't count if you're a +jay.” + +His mother looked at him without speaking. She would not confess the +ambition he taxed her with, and perhaps she had nothing so definite +in her mind. Perhaps it was only her pride in him, and her faith in a +splendid future for him, that made her averse to his marriage in the lot +she had always known, and on a little lower level in it that her own. +She said at last: + +“I don't know what you mean by being a jay. But I guess we better not +say anything more about this to-night.” + +“All right,” Jeff returned. There never were any formal good-nights +between the Durgins, and he went away now without further words. + +His mother remained sitting where he left her. Two or three times she +drew her empty darning-needle through the heel of the stocking she was +mending. + +She was still sitting there when Jackson passed on his way to bed, after +leaving the office in charge of the night porter. He faltered, as he +went by, and as he stood on the threshold she told him what Jeff had +told her. + +“That's good,” he said, lifelessly. “Good for Jeff,” he added, +thoughtfully, conscientiously. + +“Why a'n't it good for her, too?” demanded Jeff's mother, in quick +resentment of the slight put upon him. + +“I didn't say it wa'n't,” said Jackson. “But it's better for Jeff.” + +“She may be very glad to get him!” + +“I presume she is. She's always cared for him, I guess. She'll know how +to manage him.” + +“I don't know,” said Mrs. Durgin, “as I like to have you talk so, +about Jeff. He was here, just now, wantin' to give up his last year in +Harvard, so 's to let you go off on a vacation. He thinks you've worked +yourself down.” + +Jackson made no recognition of Jeff's professed self-sacrifice. “I don't +want any vacation. I'm feeling first-rate now. I guess that stuff I had +from the writin' medium has begun to take hold of me. I don't know when +I've felt so well. I believe I'm going to get stronger than ever I was. +Jeff say I needed a rest?” + +Something like a smile of compassion for the delusion of his brother +dawned upon the sick man's wasted face, which was blotched with large +freckles, and stared with dim, large eyes from out a framework of +grayish hair, and grayish beard cut to the edges of the cheeks and chin. + + + + +XXIV. + +Mrs. Durgin and Cynthia did not seek any formal meeting the next +morning. The course of their work brought them together, but it was not +till after they had transacted several household affairs of pressing +importance that Mrs. Durgin asked: “What's this about you and Jeff?” + +“Has he been telling you?” asked Cynthia, in her turn, though she knew +he had. + +“Yes,” said Mrs. Durgin, with a certain dryness, which was half +humorous. “I presume, if you two are satisfied, it's all right.” + +“I guess we're satisfied,” said the girl, with a tremor of relief which +she tried to hide. + +Nothing more was said, and there was no physical demonstration of +affection or rejoicing between the women. They knew that the time would +come when they would talk over the affair down to the bone together, +but now they were content to recognize the fact, and let the time for +talking arrive when it would. “I guess,” said Mrs. Durgin, “you'd better +go over to the helps' house and see how that youngest Miller girl's +gittin' along. She'd ought to give up and go home if she a'n't fit for +her work.” + +“I'll go and see her,” said Cynthia. “I don't believe she's strong +enough for a waitress, and I have got to tell her so.” + +“Well,” returned Mrs. Durgin, glumly, after a moment's reflection, “I +shouldn't want you should hurry her. Wait till she's out of bed, and +give her another chance.” + +“All right.” + +Jeff had been lurking about for the event of the interview, and he +waylaid Cynthia on the path to the helps' house. + +“I'm going over to see that youngest Miller girl,” she explained. + +“Yes, I know all about that,” said Jeff. “Well, mother took it just +right, didn't she? You can't always count on her; but I hadn't much +anxiety in this case. She likes you, Cynthia.” + +“I guess so,” said the girl, demurely; and she looked away from him to +smile her pleasure in the fact. + +“But I believe if she hadn't known you were with her about my last year +in Harvard--it would have been different. I could see, when I brought it +in that you wanted me to go back, her mind was made up for you.” + +“Why need you say anything about that?” + +“Oh, I knew it would clinch her. I understand mother. If you want +something from her you mustn't ask it straight out. You must propose +something very disagreeable. Then when she refuses that, you can come in +for what you were really after and get it.” + +“I don't know,” said Cynthia, “as I should like to think that your +mother had been tricked into feeling right about me.” + +“Tricked!” The color flashed up in Jeff's face. + +“Not that, Jeff,” said the girl, tenderly. “But you know what I mean. I +hope you talked it all out fully with her.” + +“Fully? I don't know what you mean.” + +“About your not studying law, and--everything.” + +“I don't believe in crossing a river till I come to it,” said Jeff. “I +didn't say anything to her about that.” + +“You didn't!” + +“No. What had it got to do with our being engaged?” + +“What had your going back to Harvard to do with it? If your mother +thinks I'm with her in that, she'll think I'm with her in the other. And +I'm not. I'm with you.” She let her hand find his, as they walked side +by side, and gave it a little pressure. + +“It's the greatest thing, Cynthy,” he said, breathlessly, “to have you +with me in that. But, if you said I ought to study law, I should do it.” + +“I shouldn't say that, for I believe you're right; but even if I +believed you were wrong, I shouldn't say it. You have a right to make +your life what you want it; and your mother hasn't. Only she must know +it, and you must tell her at once.” + +“At once?” + +“Yes--now. What good will it do to put it off? You're not afraid to tell +her!” + +“I don't like you to use that word.” + +“And I don't like to use it. But I know how it is. You're afraid that +the brunt of it will come on ME. She'll think you're all right, but I'm +all wrong because I agree with you.” + +“Something like that.” + +“Well, now, I'm not afraid of anything she can say; and what could she +do? She can't part us, unless you let her, and then I should let her, +too.” + +“But what's the hurry? What's the need of doing it right off?” + +“Because it's a deceit not to do it. It's a lie!” + +“I don't see it in that light. I might change my mind, and still go on +and study law.” + +“You know you never will. Now, Jeff! Why do you act so?” + +Jeff did not answer at once. He walked beside her with a face of trouble +that became one of resolve in the set jaws. “I guess you're right, +Cynthy. She's got to know the worst, and the sooner she knows it the +better.” + +“Yes!” + +He had another moment of faltering. “You don't want I should talk it +over with Mr. Westover?” + +“What has he got to do with it?” + +“That's true!” + +“If you want to see it in the right light, you can think you've let it +run on till after you're out of college, and then you've got to tell +her. Suppose she asked you how long you had made up your mind against +the law, how should you feel? And if she asked me whether I'd known it +all along, and I had to say I had, and that I'd supported and encouraged +you in it, how should I feel?” + +“She mightn't ask any such question,” said Jeff, gloomily. Cynthia gave +a little impatient “Oh!” and he hastened to add: “But you're right; I've +got to tell her. I'll tell her to-night--” + +“Don't wait till to-night; do it now.” + +“Now?” + +“Yes; and I'll go with you as soon as I've seen the youngest Miller +girl.” They had reached the helps' house now, and Cynthia said: “You +wait outside here, and I'll go right back with you. Oh, I hope it isn't +doing wrong to put it off till I've seen that girl!” She disappeared +through the door, and Jeff waited by the steps outside, plucking up one +long grass stem after another and biting it in two. When Cynthia came +out she said: “I guess she'll be all right. Now come, and don't-lose +another second.” + +“You're afraid I sha'n't do it if I wait any longer!” + +“I'm afraid I sha'n't.” There was a silence after this. + +“Do you know what I think of you, Cynthy?” asked Jeff, hurrying to keep +up with her quick steps. “You've got more courage--” + +“Oh, don't praise me, or I shall break down!” + +“I'll see that you don't break down,” said Jeff, tenderly. “It's the +greatest thing to have you go with me!” + +“Why, don't you SEE?” she lamented. “If you went alone, and told your +mother that I approved of it, you would look as if you were afraid, and +wanted to get behind me; and I'm not going to have that.” + +They found. Mrs. Durgin in the dark entry of the old farmhouse, and +Cynthia said, with involuntary imperiousness: “Come in here, Mrs. +Durgin; I want to tell you something.” + +She led the way to the old parlor, and she checked Mrs. Durgin's +question, “Has that Miller girl--” + +“It isn't about her,” said Cynthy, pushing the door to. “It's about me +and Jeff.” + +Mrs. Durgin became aware of Jeff's presence with an effect of surprise. +“There a'n't anything more, is there?” + +“Yes, there is!” Cynthia shrilled. “Now, Jeff!” + +“It's just this, mother: Cynthy thinks I ought to tell you--and she +thinks I ought to have told you last night--she expected me to--that I'm +not going to study law.” + +“And I approve of his not doing it,” Cynthia promptly followed, and +she put herself beside Jeff where he stood in front of his mother's +rocking-chair. + +She looked from one to the other of the faces before her. “I'm sorry a +son of mine,” she said, with dignity, “had to be told how to act with +his mother. But, if he had, I don't know as anybody had a better right +to do it than the girl that's going to marry him. And I'll say this, +Cynthia Whitwell, before I say anything else: you've begun right. I wish +I could say Jeff had.” + +There was an uncomfortable moment before Cynthia said: “He expected to +tell you.” + +“Oh Yes! I know,” said his mother, sadly. She added, sharply: “And did +he expect to tell me what he intended to do for a livin'?” + +Jeff took the word. “Yes, I did. I intend to keep a hotel.” + +“What hotel?” asked Mrs. Durgin, with a touch of taunting in her tone. + +“This one.” + +The mother of the bold, rebellious boy that Jeff had been stirred in +Mrs. Durgin's heart, and she looked at him with the eyes, that used +to condone his mischief. But she said: “I guess you'll find out that +there's more than one has to agree to that.” + +“Yes, there are two: you and Jackson; and I don't know but what three, +if you count Cynthy, here.” + +His mother turned to the girl. “You think this fellow's got sense enough +to keep a hotel?” + +“Yes, Mrs. Durgin, I do. I think he's got good ideas about a hotel.” + +“And what's he goin' to do with his college education?” + +Jeff interposed. “You think that all the college graduates turn out +lawyers and doctors and professors? Some of 'em are mighty glad to sweep +out banks in hopes of a clerkship; and some take any sort of a place in +a mill or a business house, to work up; and some bum round out West 'on +cattle ranches; and some, if they're lucky, get newspaper reporters' +places at ten dollars a week.” + +Cynthia followed with the generalization: “I don't believe anybody +can know too much to keep a hotel. It won't hurt Jeff if he's been to +Harvard, or to Europe, either.” + +“I guess there's a pair of you,” said Mrs. Durgin, with superficial +contempt. She was silent for a time, and they waited. “Well, there!” she +broke out again. “I've got something to chew upon for a spell, I guess. +Go along, now, both of you! And the next time you've got to face your +mother, Jeff, don't you come in lookin' round anybody's petticoats! I'll +see you later about all this.” + +They went away with the joyful shame of children who have escaped +punishment. + +“That's the last of it, Cynthy,” said Jeff. + +“I guess so,” the girl assented, with a certain grief in her voice. “I +wish you had told her first!” + +“Oh, never mind that now!” cried Jeff, and in the dim passageway he took +her in his arms and kissed her. + +He would have released her, but she lingered in his embrace. “Will you +promise that if there's ever anything like it again, you won't wait for +me to make you?” + +“I like your having made me, but I promise,” he said. + +Then she tightened her arms round his neck and kissed him. + + + + +XXV. + +The will of Jeff's mother relaxed its grip upon the purpose so long +held, as if the mere strain of the tenacity had wearied and weakened +it. When it finally appeared that her ambition for her son was not his +ambition for himself and would never be, she abandoned it. Perhaps it +was the easier for her to forego her hopes of his distinction in the +world, because she had learned before that she must forego her hopes of +him in other ways. She had vaguely fancied that with the acquaintance +his career at Harvard would open to him Jeff would make a splendid +marriage. She had followed darkling and stumbling his course in society +as far as he would report it to her, and when he would not suffer her to +glory in it, she believed that he was forbidding her from a pride that +would not recognize anything out of the common in it. She exulted in +his pride, and she took all his snubbing reserves tenderly, as so many +proofs of his success. + +At the bottom of her heart she had both fear and contempt of all +towns-people, whom she generalized from her experience of them as summer +folks of a greater or lesser silliness. She often found herself unable +to cope with them, even when she felt that she had twice their sense; +she perceived that they had something from their training that with +all her undisciplined force she could never hope to win from her own +environment. But she believed that her son would have the advantages +which baffled her in them, for he would have their environment; and she +had wished him to rivet his hold upon those advantages by taking a wife +from among them, and by living the life of their world. Her wishes, of +course, had no such distinct formulation, and the feeling she had toward +Cynthia as a possible barrier to her ambition had no more definition. +There had been times when the fitness of her marriage with Jeff had +moved the mother's heart to a jealousy that she always kept silent, +while she hoped for the accident or the providence which should annul +the danger. But Genevieve Vostrand had not been the kind of accident +or the providence that she would have invoked, and when she saw Jeff's +fancy turning toward her, Mrs. Durgin had veered round to Cynthia. All +the same she kept a keen eye upon the young ladies among the summer +folks who came to Lion's Head, and tacitly canvassed their merits and +inclinations with respect to Jeff in the often-imagined event of +his caring for any one of them. She found that her artfully casual +references to her son's being in Harvard scarcely affected their mothers +in the right way. The fact made them think of the head waiters whom +they had met at other hotels, and who were working their way through +Dartmouth or Williams or Yale, and it required all the force of Jeff's +robust personality to dissipate their erroneous impressions of him. He +took their daughters out of their arms and from under their noses on +long drives upon his buckboard, and it became a convention with them +to treat his attentions somewhat like those of a powerful but faithful +vassal. + +Whether he was indifferent, or whether the young ladies were coy, none +of these official flirtations came to anything. He seemed not to care +for one more than another; he laughed and joked with them all, and had +an official manner with each which served somewhat like a disparity of +years in putting them at their ease with him. They agreed that he was +very handsome, and some thought him very talented; but they questioned +whether he was quite what you would call a gentleman. It is true that +this misgiving attacked them mostly in the mass; singly, they were +little or not at all troubled by it, and they severally behaved in an +unprincipled indifference to it. + +Mrs. Durgin had the courage of her own purposes, but she had the fear +of Jeff's. After the first pang of the disappointment which took final +shape from his declaration that he was going to marry Cynthia, she did +not really care much. She had the habit of the girl; she respected her, +she even loved her. The children, as she thought of them, had known each +other from their earliest days; Jeff had persecuted Cynthia throughout +his graceless boyhood, but he had never intimidated her; and his mother, +with all her weakness for him, felt that it was well for him that his +wife should be brave enough to stand up against him. + +She formulated this feeling no more than the others, but she said to +Westover, whom Jeff bade her tell of the engagement: “It a'n't exactly +as I could 'a' wished it to be. But I don't know as mothers are ever +quite suited with their children's marriages. I presume it's from always +kind of havin' had her round under my feet ever since she was born, as +you may say, and seein' her family always so shiftless. Well, I can't +say that of Frank, either. He's turned out a fine boy; but the father! +Cynthy is one of the most capable girls, smart as a trap, and bright as +a biscuit. She's masterful, too! she NEED to have a will of her own with +Jeff.” + +Something of the insensate pride that mothers have in their children's +faults, as their quick tempers, or their wastefulness, or their +revengefulness, expressed itself in her tone; and it was perhaps this +that irritated Westover. + +“I hope he'll never let her know it. I don't think a strong will is a +thing to be prized, and I shouldn't consider it one of Cynthia's good +points. The happiest life for her would be one that never forced her to +use it.” + +“I don't know as I understand you exactly,” said Mrs. Durgin, with some +dryness. “I know Jeff's got rather of a domineering disposition, but +I don't believe but she can manage him without meetin' him on his own +ground, as you may say.” + +“She's a girl in a thousand,” Westover returned, evasively. + +“Then you think he's shown sense in choosin' of her?” pursued Jeff's +mother, resolute to find some praise of him in Westover's words. + +“He's a very fortunate man,” said the painter. + +“Well, I guess you're right,” Mrs. Durgin acquiesced, as much to Jeff's +advantage as she could. “You know I was always afraid he would make a +fool of himself, but I guess he's kept his eyes pretty well open all +the while. Well!” She closed the subject with this exclamation. “Him and +Cynthy's been at me about Jackson,” she added, abruptly. “They've cooked +it up between 'em that he's out of health or run down or something.” + +Her manner referred the matter to Westover, and he said: “He isn't +looking so well this summer. He ought to go away somewhere.” + +“That's what they thought,” said Mrs. Durgin, smiling in her pleasure +at having their opinion confirmed by the old and valued friend of the +family. + +“Whereabouts do you think he'd best go?” + +“Oh, I don't know. Italy--or Egypt--” + +“I guess, if you could get Jackson to go away at all, it would be to +some of them old Bible countries,” said Mrs. Durgin. “We've got to have +a fight to get him off, make the best of it, and I've thought it over +since the children spoke about it, and I couldn't seem to see Jackson +willin' to go out to Californy or Colorady, to either of his brothers. +But I guess he would go to Egypt. That a good climate for the--his +complaint?” + +She entered eagerly into the question, and Westover promised to write +to a Boston doctor, whom he knew very well, and report Jackson's case to +him, and get his views of Egypt. + +“Tell him how it is,” said Mrs. Durgin, “and the tussle we shall have to +have anyway to make Jackson believe he'd ought to have a rest. He'll go +to Egypt if he'll go anywheres, because his mind keeps runnin' on Bible +questions, and it 'll interest him to go out there; and we can make him +believe it's just to bang around for the winter. He's terrible hopeful.” + Now that she began to speak, all her long-repressed anxiety poured +itself out, and she hitched her chair nearer to Westover and wistfully +clutched his sleeve. “That's the worst of Jackson. You can't make him +believe anything's the matter. Sometimes I can't bear to hear him go on +about himself as if he was a well young man. He expects that medium's +stuff is goin' to cure him!” + +“People sick in that way are always hopeful,” said Westover. + +“Oh, don't I know it! Ha'n't I seen my children and my husband--Oh, do +ask that doctor to answer as quick as he can!” + + + + +XXVI. + +Westover had a difficulty in congratulating Jeff which he could scarcely +define to himself, but which was like that obscure resentment we feel +toward people whom we think unequal to their good fortune. He was +ashamed of his grudge, whatever it was, and this may have made +him overdo his expressions of pleasure. He was sensible of a false +cordiality in them, and he checked himself in a flow of forced sentiment +to say, more honestly: “I wish you'd speak to Cynthia for me. You know +how much I think of her, and how much I want to see her happy. You ought +to be a very good fellow, Jeff!” + +“I'll tell her that; she'll like that,” said Jeff. “She thinks the world +of you.” + +“Does she? Well!” + +“And I guess she'll be glad you sent word. She's been wondering what you +would say; she's always so afraid of you.” + +“Is she? You're not afraid of me, are you? But perhaps you don't think +so much of me.” + +“I guess Cynthia and I think alike on that point,” said Jeff, without +abating Westover's discomfort. + +There was a stress of sharp cold that year about the 20th of August. +Then the weather turned warm again, and held fine till the beginning of +October, within a week of the time when Jackson was to sail. It had not +been so hard to make him consent when he knew where the doctor wished +him to go, and he had willingly profited by Westover's suggestions about +getting to Egypt. His interest in the matter, which he tried to hide at +first under a mask of decorous indifference, mounted with the fire of +Whitwell's enthusiasm, and they held nightly councils together, studying +his course on the map, and consulting planchette upon the points at +variance that rose between them, while Jombateeste sat with his chair +tilted against the wall, and pulled steadily at his pipe, which mixed +its strong fumes with the smell of the kerosene-lamp and the perennial +odor of potatoes in the cellar under the low room where the companions +forgathered. + +Toward the end of September Westover spent the night before he went back +to town with them. After a season with planchette, their host pushed +himself back with his knees from the table till his chair reared upon +its hind legs, and shoved his hat up from his forehead in token of +philosophical mood. + +“I tell you, Jackson,” he said, “you'd ought to get hold o' some them +occult devils out there, and squeeze their science out of 'em. Any +Buddhists in Egypt, Mr. Westover?” + +“I don't think there are,” said Westover. “Unless Jackson should come +across some wandering Hindu. Or he might push on, and come home by the +way of India.” + +“Do it, Jackson!” his friend conjured him. “May cost you something more, +but it 'll be worth the money. If it's true, what some them Blavetsky +fellers claim, you can visit us here in your astral body--git in with +'em the right way. I should like to have you try it. What's the reason +India wouldn't be as good for him as Egypt, anyway?” Whitwell demanded +of Westover. + +“I suppose the climate's rather too moist; the heat would be rather +trying to him there.” + +“That so?” + +“And he's taken his ticket for Alexandria,” Westover pursued. + +“Well, I guess that's so.” Whitwell tilted his backward sloping hat +to one side, so as to scratch the northeast corner of his bead +thoughtfully. + +“But as far as that is concerned,” said Westover, “and the doctrine of +immortality generally is concerned, Jackson will have his hands full if +he studies the Egyptian monuments.” + +“What they got to do with it?” + +“Everything. Egypt is the home of the belief in a future life; it was +carried from Egypt to Greece. He might come home by way of Athens.” + +“Why, man!” cried Whitwell. “Do you mean to say that them old Hebrew +saints, Joseph's brethren, that went down into Egypt after corn, didn't +know about immortality, and them Egyptian devils did?” + +“There's very little proof in the Old Testament that the Israelites knew +of it.” + +Whitwell looked at Jackson. “That the idee you got?” + +“I guess he's right,” said Jackson. “There's something a little about it +in Job, and something in the Psalms: but not a great deal.” + +“And we got it from them Egyptian d----” + +“I don't say that,” Westover interposed. “But they had it before we had. +As we imagine it, we got it though Christianity.” + +Jombateeste, who had taken his pipe out of his mouth in a controversial +manner, put it back again. + +Westover added, “But there's no question but the Egyptians believed in +the life hereafter, and in future rewards and punishments for the deeds +done in the body, thousands of years before our era.” + +“Well, I'm dumned,” said Whitwell. + +Jombateeste took his pipe out again. “Hit show they got good sense. They +know--they feel it in their bone--what goin' 'appen--when you dead. Me, +I guess they got some prophet find it hout for them; then they goin' +take the credit.” + +“I guess that's something so, Jombateeste,” said Whitwell. “It don't +stand to reason that folks without any alphabet, as you may say, and +only a lot of pictures for words, like Injuns, could figure out the +immortality of the soul. They got the idee by inspiration somehow. Why, +here! It's like this. Them Pharaohs must have always been clawin' out +for the Hebrews before they got a hold of Joseph, and when they found +out the true doctrine, they hushed up where they got it, and their +priests went on teachin' it as if it was their own.” + +“That's w'at I say. Got it from the 'Ebrew.” + +“Well, it don't matter a great deal where they got it, so they got it,” + said Jackson, as he rose. + +“I believe I'll go with you,” said Westover. + +“All there is about it,” said the sick man, solemnly, with a frail +effort to straighten himself, to which his sunken chest would not +respond, “is this: no man ever did figure that out for himself. A man +sees folks die, and as far as his senses go, they don't live again. But +somehow he knows they do; and his knowledge comes from somewhere else; +it's inspired--” + +“That's w'at I say,” Jombateeste hastened to interpose. “Got it from the +'Ebrew. Feel it in 'is bone.” + +Out under the stars Jackson and Westover silently mounted the hill-side +together. At one of the thank-you-marms in the road the sick man +stopped, like a weary horse, to breathe. He took off his hat and wiped +the sweat of weakness that had gathered upon his forehead, and looked +round the sky, powdered with the constellations and the planets. “It's +sightly,” he whispered. + +“Yes, it is fine,” Westover assented. “But the stars of our Northern +nights are nothing to what you'll see in Egypt.” + +Jackson repeated, vaguely: “Egypt! Where I should like to go is Mars.” + He fixed his eyes on the flaming planets, in a long stare. “But I +suppose they have their own troubles, same as we do. They must get sick +and die, like the rest of us. But I should like to know more about 'em. +You believe it's inhabited, don't you?” + +Westover's agnosticism did not, somehow, extend to Mars. “Yes, I've no +doubt of it.” + +Jackson seemed pleased. “I've read everything I can lay my hands on +about it. I've got a notion that if there's any choosin', after we get +through here, I should like to go to Mars for a while, or as long as I +was a little homesick still, and wanted to keep as near the earth as I +could,” he added, quaintly. + +Westover laughed. “You could study up the subject of irrigation, there; +they say that's what keeps the parallel markings green on Mars; and +telegraph a few hints to your brother in Colorado, after the Martians +perfect their signal code.” + +Perhaps the invalid's fancy flagged. He drew a long, ragged breath. “I +don't know as I care to leave home, much. If it wa'n't a kind of duty, +I shouldn't.” He seemed impelled by a sudden need to say, “How do you +think Jefferson and mother will make it out together?” + +“I've no doubt they'll manage,” said Westover. + +“They're a good deal alike,” Jackson suggested. + +“Westover preferred not to meet his overture. You'll be back, you know, +almost as soon as the season commences, next summer.” + +“Yes,” Jackson assented, more cheerfully. “And now, Cynthy's sure to be +here.” + +“Yes, she will be here,” said Westover, not so cheerfully. + +Jackson seemed to find the opening he was seeking, in Westover's tone. +“What do you think of gettin' married, anyway, Mr. Westover?” he asked. + +“We haven't either of us thought so well of it as to try it, Jackson,” + said the painter, jocosely. + +“Think it's a kind of chance?” + +“It's a chance.” + +Jackson was silent. Then, “I a'n't one of them,” he said, abruptly, +“that think a man's goin' to be made over by marryin' this woman or +that. If he a'n't goin' to be the right kind of a man himself, he a'n't +because his wife's a good woman. Sometimes I think that a man's wife is +the last person in the world that can change his disposition. She can +influence him about this and about that, but she can't change him. +It seems as if he couldn't let her if he tried, and after the first +start-off he don't try.” + +“That's true,” Westover assented. “We're terribly inflexible. Nothing +but something like a change of heart, as they used to call it, can make +us different, and even then we're apt to go back to our old shape. When +you look at it in that light, marriage seems impossible. Yet it takes +place every day!” + +“It's a great risk for a woman,” said Jackson, putting on his hat and +stirring for an onward movement. “But I presume that if the man is +honest with her it's the best thing she can have. The great trouble is +for the man to be honest with her.” + +“Honesty is difficult,” said Westover. + +He made Jackson promise to spend a day with him in Boston, on his way to +take the Mediterranean steamer at New York. When they met he yielded to +an impulse which the invalid's forlornness inspired, and went on to see +him off. He was glad that he did that, for, though Jackson was not sad +at parting, he was visibly touched by Westover's kindness. + +Of course he talked away from it. “I guess I've left 'em in pretty good +shape for the winter at Lion's Head,” he said. “I've got Whitwell to +agree to come up and live in the house with mother, and she'll have +Cynthy with her, anyway; and Frank and Jombateeste can look after the +bosses easy enough.” + +He had said something like this before, but Westover could see that it +comforted him to repeat it, and he encouraged him to do so in full. He +made him talk about getting home in the spring, after the frost was +out of the ground, but he questioned involuntarily, while the sick man +spoke, whether he might not then be lying under the sands that had +never known a frost since the glacial epoch. When the last warning for +visitors to go ashore came, Jackson said, with a wan smile, while he +held Westover's hand: “I sha'n't forget this very soon.” + +“Write to me,” said Westover. + + + + +Part II. + + + + +XXVII. + +Jackson kept his promise to write to Westover, but he was better than +his word to his mother, and wrote to her every week that winter. + +“I seem just to live from letter to letter. It's ridic'lous,” she said +to Cynthia once when the girl brought the mail in from the barn, where +the men folks kept it till they had put away their horses after driving +over from Lovewell with it. The trains on the branch road were taken off +in the winter, and the post-office at the hotel was discontinued. The +men had to go to the town by cutter, over a highway that the winds +sifted half full of snow after it had been broken out by the ox-teams in +the morning. But Mrs. Durgin had studied the steamer days and calculated +the time it would take letters to come from New York to Lovewell; and, +unless a blizzard was raging, some one had to go for the mail when the +day came. It was usually Jombateeste, who reverted in winter to the type +of habitant from which he had sprung. He wore a blue woollen cap, like a +large sock, pulled over his ears and close to his eyes, and below it his +clean-shaven brown face showed. He had blue woollen mittens, and boots +of russet leather, without heels, came to his knees; he got a pair every +time he went home on St. John's day. His lean little body was swathed in +several short jackets, and he brought the letters buttoned into one +of the innermost pockets. He produced the letter from Jackson promptly +enough when Cynthia came out to the barn for it, and then he made a +show of getting his horse out of the cutter shafts, and shouting +international reproaches at it, till she was forced to ask, “Haven't you +got something for me, Jombateeste?” + +“You expec' some letter?” he said, unbuckling a strap and shouting +louder. + +“You know whether I do. Give it to me.” + +“I don' know. I think I drop something on the road. I saw something +white; maybe snow; good deal of snow.” + +“Don't plague! Give it here!” + +“Wait I finish unhitch. I can't find any letter till I get some time to +look.” + +“Oh, now, Jombateeste! Give me my letter!” + +“W'at you want letter for? Always same thing. Well! 'Old the 'oss; I +goin' to feel.” + +Jombateeste felt in one pocket after another, while Cynthia clung to +the colt's bridle, and he was uncertain till the last whether he had any +letter for her. When it appeared she made a flying snatch at it and ran; +and the comedy was over, to be repeated in some form the next week. + +The girl somehow always possessed herself of what was in her letters +before she reached the room where Mrs. Durgin was waiting for hers. She +had to read that aloud to Jackson's mother, and in the evening she had +to read it again to Mrs. Durgin and Whitwell and Jombateeste and Frank, +after they had done their chores, and they had gathered in the old +farm-house parlor, around the air-tight sheet-iron stove, in a heat of +eighty degrees. Whitwell listened, with planchette ready on the table +before him, and he consulted it for telepathic impressions of Jackson's +actual mental state when the reading was over. + +He got very little out of the perverse instrument. “I can't seem to work +her. If Jackson was here--” + +“We shouldn't need to ask planchette about him,” Cynthia once suggested, +with the spare sense of humor that sometimes revealed itself in her. + +“Well, I guess that's something so,” her father candidly admitted. +But the next time he consulted the helpless planchette as hopefully as +before. “You can't tell, you can't tell,” he urged. + +“The trouble seems to be that planchette can't tell,” said Mrs. Durgin, +and they all laughed. They were not people who laughed a great deal, and +they were each intent upon some point in the future that kept them from +pleasure in the present. The little Canuck was the only one who suffered +himself a contemporaneous consolation. His early faith had so far +lapsed from him that he could hospitably entertain the wild psychical +conjectures of Whitwell without an accusing sense of heresy, and he +found the winter of northern New England so mild after that of Lower +Canada that he experienced a high degree of animal comfort in it, and +looked forward to nothing better. To be well fed, well housed, and well +heated; to smoke successive pipes while the others talked, and to catch +through his smoke-wreaths vague glimpses of their meanings, was enough. +He felt that in being promoted to the care of the stables in Jackson's +absence he occupied a dignified and responsible position, with a +confidential relation to the exile which justified him in sending +special messages to him, and attaching peculiar value to Jackson's +remembrances. + +The exile's letters said very little about his health, which in the +sense of no news his mother held to be good news, but they were full +concerning the monuments and the ethnological interest of life in Egypt. + +They were largely rescripts of each day's observations and experiences, +close and full, as his mother liked them in regard to fact, and +generously philosophized on the side of politics and religion for +Whitwell. The Eastern question became in the snow-choked hills of New +England the engrossing concern of this speculative mind, and he was +apt to spring it upon Mrs. Durgin and Cynthia at mealtimes and other +defenceless moments. He tried to debate it with Jombateeste, who +conceived of it as a form of spiritualistic inquiry, and answered +from the hay-loft, where he was throwing down fodder for the cattle +to Whitwell, volubly receiving it on the barn floor below, that he +believed, him, everybody got a hastral body, English same as Mormons. + +“Guess you mean Moslems,” said Whitwell, and Jombateeste asked the +difference, defiantly. + +The letters which came to Cynthia could not be made as much a general +interest, and, in fact, no one else cared so much for them as for +Jackson's letters, not even Jeff's mother. After Cynthia got one of +them, she would ask, perfunctorily, what Jeff said, but when she was +told there was no news she did not press her question. + +“If Jackson don't get back in time next summer,” Mrs. Durgin said, in +one of the talks she had with the girl, “I guess I shall have to let +Jeff and you run the house alone.” + +“I guess we shall want a little help from you,” said Cynthia, demurely. +She did not refuse the implication of Mrs. Durgin's words, but she would +not assume that there was more in them than they expressed. + +When Jeff came home for the three days' vacation at Thanksgiving, he +wished again to relinquish his last year at Harvard, and Cynthia had to +summon all her forces to keep him to his promise of staying. He brought +home the books with which he was working off his conditions, with +a half-hearted intention of study, and she took hold with him, and +together they fought forward over the ground he had to gain. His mother +was almost willing at last that he should give up his last year in +college. + +“What is the use?” she asked. “He's give up the law, and he might as +well commence here first as last, if he's goin' to.” + +The girl had no reason to urge against this; she could only urge her +feeling that he ought to go back and take his degree with the rest of +his class. + +“If you're going to keep Lion's Head the way you pretend you are,” she +said to him, as she could not say to his mother, “you want to keep all +your Harvard friends, don't you, and have them remember you? Go back, +Jeff, and don't you come here again till after you've got your degree. +Never mind the Christmas vacation, nor the Easter. Stay in Cambridge +and work off your conditions. You can do it, if you try. Oh, don't you +suppose I should like to have you here?” she reproached him. + +He went back, with a kind of grudge in his heart, which he confessed in +his first letter home to her, when he told her that she was right and he +was wrong. He was sure now, with the impulse which their work on them +in common had given him, that he should get his conditions off, and he +wanted her and his mother to begin preparing their minds to come to his +Class Day. He planned how they could both be away from the hotel for +that day. The house was to be opened on the 20th of June, but it was not +likely that there would be so many people at once that they could not +give the 21st to Class Day; Frank and his father could run Lion's Head +somehow, or, if they could not, then the opening could be postponed till +the 24th. At all events, they must not fail to come. Cynthia showed the +whole letter to his mother, who refused to think of such a thing, and +then asked, as if the fact had not been fully set before her: “When is +it to be?” + +“The 21st of June.” + +“Well, he's early enough with his invitation,” she grumbled. + +“Yes, he is,” said Cynthia; and she laughed for shame and pleasure as +she confessed, “I was thinking he was rather late.” + +She hung her head and turned her face away. But Mrs. Durgin understood. +“You be'n expectin' it all along, then.” + +“I guess so.” + +“I presume,” said the elder woman, “that he's talked to you about it. +He never tells me much. I don't see why you should want to go. What's it +like?” + +“Oh, I don't know. But it's the day the graduating class have to +themselves, and all their friends come.” + +“Well, I don't know why anybody should want to go,” said Mrs. Durgin. +“I sha'n't. Tell him he won't want to own me when he sees me. What am I +goin' to wear, I should like to know? What you goin' to wear, Cynthy?” + + + + +XXVIII. + +Jeff's place at Harvard had been too long fixed among the jays to allow +the hope of wholly retrieving his condition now. It was too late for +him to be chosen in any of the nicer clubs or societies, but he was not +beyond the mounting sentiment of comradery, which begins to tell in +the last year among college men, and which had its due effect with his +class. One of the men, who had always had a foible for humanity, took +advantage of the prevailing mood in another man, and wrought upon him +to ask, among the fellows he was asking to a tea at his rooms, several +fellows who were distinctly and almost typically jay. The tea was for +the aunt of the man who gave it, a very pretty woman from New York, and +it was so richly qualified by young people of fashion from Boston that +the infusion of the jay flavor could not spoil it, if it would not +rather add an agreeable piquancy. This college mood coincided that year +with a benevolent emotion in the larger world, from which fashion was +not exempt. Society had just been stirred by the reading of a certain +book, which had then a very great vogue, and several people had +been down among the wretched at the North End doing good in a +conscience-stricken effort to avert the millennium which the book in +question seemed to threaten. The lady who matronized the tea was said +to have done more good than you could imagine at the North End, and she +caught at the chance to meet the college jays in a spirit of Christian +charity. When the man who was going to give the tea rather sheepishly +confessed what the altruistic man had got him in for, she praised him +so much that he went away feeling like the hero of a holy cause. She +promised the assistance and sympathy of several brave girls, who would +not be afraid of all the jays in college. + +After all, only one of the jays came. Not many, in fact, had been asked, +and when Jeff Durgin actually appeared, it was not known that he was +both the first and the last of his kind. The lady who was matronizing +the tea recognized him, with a throe of her quickened conscience, as the +young fellow whom she had met two winters before at the studio tea which +Mr. Westover had given to those queer Florentine friends of his, and +whom she had never thought of since, though she had then promised +herself to do something for him. She had then even given him some +vague hints of a prospective hospitality, and she confessed her sin of +omission in a swift but graphic retrospect to one of her brave girls, +while Jeff stood blocking out a space for his stalwart bulk amid the +alien elegance just within the doorway, and the host was making his way +toward him, with an outstretched hand of hardy welcome. + +At an earlier period of his neglect and exclusion, Jeff would not have +responded to the belated overture which had now been made him, for no +reason that he could divine. But he had nothing to lose by accepting +the invitation, and he had promised the altruistic man, whom he rather +liked; he did not dislike the giver of the tea so much as some other +men, and so he came. + +The brave girl whom the matron was preparing to devote to him stood +shrinking with a trepidation which she could not conceal at sight of +his strange massiveness, with his rust-gold hair coming down toward his +thick yellow brows and mocking blue eyes in a dense bang, and his jaw +squaring itself under the rather insolent smile of his full mouth. The +matron felt that her victim teas perhaps going to fail her, when a voice +at her ear said, as if the question were extorted, “Who in the world is +that?” + +She instantly turned, and flashed out in a few inspired syllables +the fact she had just imparted to her treacherous heroine. “Do let me +introduce him, Miss Lynde. I must do something for him, when he gets up +to me, if he ever does.” + +“By all means,” said the girl, who had an impulse to laugh at the rude +force of Jeff's face and figure, so disproportioned to the occasion, and +she vented it at the matron's tribulation. The matron was shaking hands +with people right and left, and exchanging inaudible banalities with +them. She did not know what the girl said in answer, but she was aware +that she remained near her. She had professed her joy at seeing Jeff +again, when he reached her, and she turned with him and said, “Let me +present you to Miss Lynde, Mr. Durgin,” and so abandoned them to each +other. + +As Jeff had none of the anxiety for social success which he would have +felt at an earlier period, he now left it to Miss Lynde to begin the +talk, or not, as she chose. He bore himself with so much indifference +that she was piqued to an effort to hold his eyes, that wandered from +her to this face and that in the crowd. + +“Do you find many people you know, Mr. Durgin?” + +“I don't find any.” + +“I supposed you didn't from the way you looked at them.” + +“How did I look at them?” + +“As if you wanted to eat them, and one never wants to eat one's +friends.” + +“Why?” + +“Oh, I don't know. They wouldn't agree with one.” + +Jeff laughed, and he now took fuller note of the slender girl who stood +before him, and swayed a little backward, in a graceful curve. He saw +that she had a dull, thick complexion, with liquid eyes, set wide apart +and slanted upward slightly, and a nose that was deflected inward from +the straight line; but her mouth was beautiful and vividly red like a +crimson blossom. + +“Couldn't you find me some place to sit down, Mr. Durgin?” she asked. + +He had it on his tongue to say, “Well, not unless you want to sit down +on some enemy,” but he did not venture this: when it comes to daring of +that sort, the boldest man is commonly a little behind a timid woman. + +Several of the fellows had clubbed their rooms, and lent them to the man +who was giving the tea; he used one of the apartments for a cloak-room, +and he meant the other for the social overflow from his own. But people +always prefer to remain dammed-up together in the room where they are +received, and Miss Lynde looked between the neighboring heads, and over +the neighboring shoulders, and saw the borrowed apartment quite empty. +At the moment of this discovery the host came fighting his way up to +make sure that Jeff had been provided for in the way of introductions. +He promptly introduced him to Miss Lynde. She said: “Oh, that's been +done! Can't you think of something new?” Jeff liked the style of this. +“I don't mind it, but I'm afraid Mr. Durgin must find it monotonous.” + +“Oh, well, do something original yourself, then, Miss Lynde!” said the +host. “Start a movement for that room across the passage; that's mine, +too, for the occasion; and save some of these people's lives. It's +suffocating in here.” + +“I don't mind saving Mr. Durgin's,” said the girl, “if he wants it +saved.” + +“Oh, I know he's just dying to have you save it,” said the host, and he +left them, to inspire other people to follow their example. But such as +glanced across the passage into the overflow room seemed to think it now +the possession solely of the pioneers of the movement. At any rate, they +made no show of joining them; and after Miss Lynde and Jeff had looked +at the pictures on the walls and the photographs on the mantel of the +room where they found themselves, they sat down on chairs fronting the +open door and the door of the room they had left. The window-seat would +have been more to Jeff's mind, and he had proposed it, but the girl +seemed not to have heard him; she took the deep easy-chair in full view +of the company opposite, and left him to pull up a chair beside her. + +“I always like to see the pictures in a man's room,” she said, with a +little sigh of relief from their inspection and a partial yielding of +her figure to the luxury of the chair. “Then I know what the man is. +This man--I don't know whose room it is--seems to have spent a good deal +of his time at the theatre.” + +“Isn't that where most of them spend their time?” asked Jeff. + +“I'm sure I don't know. Is that where you spend yours?” + +“It used to be. I'm not spending my time anywhere just now.” She looked +questioningly, and he added, “I haven't got any to spend.” + +“Oh, indeed! Is that a reason? Why don't you spend somebody else's?” + +“Nobody has any, that I know.” + +“You're all working off conditions, you mean?” + +“That's what I'm doing, or trying to.” + +“Then it's never certain whether you can do it, after all?” + +“Not so certain as to be free from excitement,” said Jeff, smiling. + +“And are you consumed with the melancholy that seems to be balling up +all the men at the prospect of having to leave Harvard and go out into +the hard, cold world?” + +“I don't look it, do I? Jeff asked: + +“No, you don't. And you don't feel it? You're not trying concealment, +and so forth?” + +“No; if I'd had my own way, I'd have left Harvard before this.” He could +see that his bold assumption of difference, or indifference, told upon +her. “I couldn't get out into the hard, cold world too soon.” + +“How fearless! Most of them don't know what they're going to do in it.” + +“I do.” + +“And what are you going to do? Or perhaps you think that's asking!” + +“Oh no. I'm going to keep a hotel.” + +He had hoped to startle her, but she asked, rather quietly, “What do +you mean?” and she added, as if to punish him for trying to mystify her: +“I've heard that it requires gifts for that. Isn't there some proverb?” + +“Yes. But I'm going to try to do it on experience.” He laughed, and +he did not mind her trying to hit him, for he saw that he had made her +curious. + +“Do you mean that you have kept a hotel?” + +“For three generations,” he returned, with a gravity that mocked her +from his bold eyes. + +“I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” she said, indifferently. “Where +is your hotel? In Boston--New York--Chicago?” + +“It's in the country--it's a summer hotel,” he said, as before. + +She looked away from him toward the other room. “There's my brother. I +didn't know he was coming.” + +“Shall I go and tell him where you are?” Jeff asked, following the +direction of her eyes. + +“No, no; he can find me,” said the girl, sinking back in her chair +again. He left her to resume the talk where she chose, and she said: “If +it's something ancestral, of course--” + +“I don't know as it's that, exactly. My grandfather used to keep a +country tavern, and so it's in the blood, but the hotel I mean is +something that we've worked up into from a farm boarding-house.” + +“You don't talk like a country person,” the girl broke in, abruptly. + +“Not in Cambridge. I do in the country.” + +“And so,” she prompted, “you're going to turn it into a hotel when +you've got out of Harvard.” + +“It's a hotel already, and a pretty big one; but I'm going to make the +right kind of hotel of it when I take hold of it.” + +“And what is the right kind of a hotel?” + +“That's a long story. It would make you tired.” + +“It might, but we've got to spend the time somehow. You could begin, and +then if I couldn't stand it you could stop.” + +“It's easier to stop first and begin some other time. I guess I'll let +you imagine my hotel, Miss Lynde.” + +“Oh, I understand now,” said the girl. “The table will be the great +thing. You will stuff people.” + +“Do you mean that I'm trying to stuff you?” + +“How do I know? You never can tell what men really mean.” + +Jeff laughed with mounting pleasure in her audacity, that imparted a +sense of tolerance for him such as he had experienced very seldom from +the Boston girls he had met; after all, he had met but few. It flattered +him to have her doubt what he had told her in his reckless indifference; +it implied that he was fit for better things than hotel-keeping. + +“You never can tell how much a woman believes,” he retorted. + +“And you keep trying to find out?” + +“No, but I think that they might believe the truth.” + +“You'd better try them with it!” + +“Well, I will. Do you really want to know what I'm going to do when I +get through?” + +“Let me see!” Miss Lynde leaned forward, with her elbow on her knee and +her chin in her hand, and softly kicked the edge of her skirt with the +toe of her shoe, as if in deep thought. Jeff waited for her to play her +comedy through. “Yes,” she said, “I think I did wish to know--at one +time.” + +“But you don't now?” + +“Now? How can I tell? It was a great while ago!” + +“I see you don't.” + +Miss Lynde did not make any reply. She asked, “Do you know my aunt, +Durgin?” + +“I didn't know you had one.” + +“Yes, everybody has an aunt--even when they haven't a mother, if you can +believe the Gilbert operas. I ask because I happen to live with my aunt, +and if you knew her she might--ask you to call.” Miss Lynde scanned +Jeff's face for the effect of this. + +He said, gravely: “If you'll introduce me to her, I'll ask her to let +me.” + +“Would you, really?” said the girl. “I've half a mind to try. I wonder +if you'd really have the courage.” + +“I don't think I'm easily rattled.” + +“You mean that I'm trying to rattle you.” + +“No--” + +“I'm not. My aunt is just what I've said.” + +“You haven't said what she was. Is she here?” + +“No; that's the worst of it. If she were, I should introduce you, just +to see if you'd dare. Well, some other time I will.” + +“You think there'll be some other time?” Jeff asked. + +“I don't know. There are all kinds of times. By-the-way, what time is +it?” + +Jeff looked at his watch. “Quarter after six.” + +“Then I must go.” She jumped to her feet, and faced about for a glimpse +of herself in the little glass on the mantel, and put her hand on the +large pink roses massed at her waist. One heavy bud dropped from its +stem to the floor, where, while she stood, the edge of her skirt pulled +and pushed it. She moved a little aside to peer over at a photograph. +Jeff stooped and picked up the flower, which he offered her. + +“You dropped it,” he said, bowing over it. + +“Did I?” She looked at it with an effect of surprise and doubt. + +“I thought so, but if you don't, I shall keep it.” + +The girl removed her careless eyes from it. “When they break off so +short, they won't go back.” + +“If I were a rose, I should want to go back,” said Jeff. + +She stopped in one of her many aversions and reversions, and looked at +him steadily across her shoulder. “You won't have to keep a poet, Mr. +Durgin.” + +“Thank you. I always expected to write the circulars myself. I'll send +you one.” + +“Do.” + +“With this rose pressed between the leaves, so you'll know.” + +“That would, be very pretty. But you must take me to Mrs. Bevidge, now, +if you can.” + +“I guess I can,” said Jeff; and in a minute or two they stood before the +matronizing hostess, after a passage through the babbling and laughing +groups that looked as impossible after they had made it as it looked +before. + +Mrs. Bevidge gave the girl's hand a pressure distinct from the official +touch of parting, and contrived to say, for her hearing alone: “Thank +you so much, Bessie. You've done missionary work.” + +“I shouldn't call it that.” + +“It will do for you to say so! He wasn't really so bad, then? Thank you +again, dear!” + +Jeff had waited his turn. But now, after the girl had turned away, as if +she had forgotten him, his eyes followed her, and he did not know that +Mrs. Bevidge was speaking to him. Miss Lynde had slimly lost herself in +the mass, till she was only a graceful tilt of hat, before she turned +with a distraught air. When her eyes met Jeff's they lighted up with +a look that comes into the face when one remembers what one has been +trying to think of. She gave him a brilliant smile that seemed to +illumine him from head to foot, and before it was quenched he felt as if +she had kissed her hand to him from her rich mouth. + +Then he heard Mrs. Bevidge asking something about a hall, and he was +aware of her bending upon him a look of the daring humanity that had +carried her triumphantly through her good works at the North End. + +“Oh, I'm not in the Yard,” said Jeff, with belated intelligence. + +“Then will just Cambridge reach you?” + +He gave his number and street, and she thanked him with the benevolence +that availed so much with the lower classes. He went away thrilling and +tingling, with that girl's tones in his ear, her motions in his nerves, +and the colors of her face filling his sight, which he printed on the +air whenever he turned, as one does with a vivid light after looking at +it. + + + + +XXIX + +When Jeff reached his room he felt the need of writing to Cynthia, with +whatever obscure intention of atonement. He told her of the college tea +he had just come from, and made fun of it, and the kind of people he had +met, especially the affected girl who had tried to rattle him; he said +he guessed she did not think she had rattled him a great deal. + +While he wrote he kept thinking how this Miss Lynde was nearer his early +ideal of fashion, of high life, which Westover had pretty well snubbed +out of him, than any woman he had seen yet; she seemed a girl who would +do what she pleased, and would not be afraid if it did not please +other people. He liked her having tried to rattle him, and he smiled to +himself in recalling her failure. It was as if she had laid hold of him +with her little hands to shake him, and had shaken herself. He laughed +out in the dark when this image came into his mind; its intimacy +flattered him; and he believed that it was upon some hint from her that +Mrs. Bevidge had asked his address. She must be going to ask him to her +house, and very soon, for it was part of Jeff's meagre social experience +that this was the way swells did; they might never ask you twice, but +they would ask you promptly. + +The thing that Mrs. Bevidge asked Jeff to, when her note reached him the +second day after the tea, was a meeting to interest young people in +the work at the North End, and Jeff swore under his breath at the +disappointment and indignity put upon him. He had reckoned upon an +afternoon tea, at least, or even, in the flights of fancy which he now +disowned to himself, a dance after the Mid-Years, or possibly an +earlier reception of some sort. He burned with shame to think of a +theatre-party, which he had fondly specialized, with a seat next Miss +Lynde. + +He tore Mrs. Bevidge's note to pieces, and decided not to answer it at +all, as the best way of showing how he had taken her invitation. But +Mrs. Bevidge's benevolence was not wanting in courage; she believed that +Jeff should pay his footing in society, such as it was, and should allow +himself to be made use of, the first thing; when she had no reply from +him, she wrote him again, asking him to an adjourned meeting of the +first convocation, which had been so successful in everything but +numbers. This time she baited her hook, in hoping that the young men +would feel something of the interest the young ladies had already shown +in the matter. She expressed the fear that Mr. Durgin had not got her +earlier letter, and she sent this second to the care of the man who had +given the tea. + +Jeff's resentment was now so far past that he would have civilly +declined to go to the woman's house; but all his hopes of seeing that +girl, as he always called Miss Lynde in his thought, were revived by the +mention of the young ladies interested in the cause. He accepted, though +all the way into Boston he laid wagers with himself that she would not +be there; and up to the moment of taking her hand he refused himself any +hope of winning. + +There was not much business before the meeting; that had really been all +transacted before; it was mainly to make sure of the young men, who were +present in the proportion of one to five young ladies at least. Mrs. +Bevidge explained that she had seen the wastefulness of amateur effort +among the poor, and announced that hereafter she was going to work with +the established charities. These were very much in want of visitors, +especially young men, to go about among the applicants for relief, and +inquire into their real necessities, and get work for them. She was hers +self going to act as secretary for the meetings during the coming month, +and apparently she wished to signalize her accession to the regular +forces of charity by bringing into camp as large a body of recruits as +she could. + +But Jeff had not come to be made use of, or as a jay who was willing to +work for his footing in society. He had come in the hope of meeting Miss +Lynde, and now that he had met her he had no gratitude to Mrs. Bevidge +as a means, and no regret for the defeat of her good purposes so far as +she intended their fulfilment in him. He was so cool and self-possessed +in excusing himself, for reasons that he took no pains to make seem +unselfish, that the altruistic man who had got him asked to the college +tea as a friendless jay felt it laid upon him to apologize for Mrs. +Bevidge's want of tact. + +“She means well, and she's very much in earnest, in this work; but I +must say she can make herself very offensive--when she doesn't try! She +has a right to ask our help, but not to parade us as the captives of her +bow and spear.” + +“Oh, that's all right,” said Jeff. He perceived that the amiable fellow +was claiming for all an effect that Jeff knew really implicated himself +alone. “I couldn't load up with anything of that sort, if I'm to work +off my conditions, you know.” + +“Are you in that boat?” said the altruist, as if he were, too; and he +put his hand compassionately on Jeff's iron shoulder, and left him to +Miss Lynde, whose side he had not stirred from since he had found her. + +“It seems to me,” she said, “that where there are so many of you in the +same boat, you might manage to get ashore somehow.” + +“Yes, or all go down together.” Jeff laughed, and ate Mrs. Bevidge's +bread-and-butter, and drank her tea, with a relish unaffected by his +refusal to do what she asked him. He was right, perhaps, and perhaps she +deserved nothing better at his hands, but the altruist, when he glanced +at him from the other side of the room, thought that he had possibly +wasted his excuses upon Jeff's self-complacence. + +He went away in a halo of young ladies; several of the other girls +grouped themselves in their departure; and it happened that Miss +Lynde and Jeff took leave together. Mrs. Bevidge said to her, with the +caressing tenderness of one in the same set, “Good-bye, dear!” To Jeff +she said, with the cold conscience of those whom their nobility obliges, +“I am always at home on Thursdays, Mr. Durgin.” + +“Oh, thank you,” said Jeff. He understood what the words and the manner +meant together, but both were instantly indifferent to him when he got +outside and found that Miss Lynde was not driving. Something, which was +neither look, nor smile, nor word, of course, but nothing more at most +than a certain pull and tilt of the shoulder, as she turned to walk away +from Mrs. Bevidge's door, told him from her that he might walk home with +her if he would not seem to do so. + +It was one of the pink evenings, dry and clear, that come in the Boston +December, and they walked down the sidehill street, under the delicate +tracery of the elm boughs in the face of the metallic sunset. In the +section of the Charles that the perspective of the street blocked out, +the wrinkled current showed as if glazed with the hard color. Jeff's +strong frame rejoiced in the cold with a hale pleasure when he looked +round into the face of the girl beside him, with the gray film of her +veil pressed softly against her red mouth by her swift advance. Their +faces were nearly on a level, as they looked into each other's eyes, +and he kept seeing the play of the veil's edge against her lips as they +talked. + +“Why sha'n't you go to Mrs. Bevidge's Thursdays?” she asked. “They're +very nice.” + +“How do you know I'm not going?” he retorted. + +“By the way you thanked her.” + +“Do you advise me to go?” + +“I haven't got anything to do with it. What do mean by that?” + +“I don't know. Curiosity, I suppose.” + +“Well, I do advise you to go,” said the girl. “Shall you be there next +Thursday?” + +“I? I never go to Mrs. Bevidge's Thursdays!” + +“Touche,” said Jeff, and they both laughed. “Can you always get in at an +enemy that way?” + +“Enemy?” + +“Well, friend. It's the same thing.” + +“I see,” said the girl. “You belong to the pessimistic school of +Seniors.” + +“Why don't you try to make an optimist of me?” + +“Would it be worth while?” + +“That isn't for me to say.” + +“Don't be diffident! That's staler yet.” + +“I'll be anything you like.” + +“I'm not sure you could.” For an instant Jeff did not feel the point, +and he had not the magnanimity, when he did, to own himself touched +again. Apparently, if this girl could not rattle him, she could beat him +at fence, and the will to dominate her began to stir in him. If he could +have thought of any sarcasm, no matter how crushing, he would have come +back at her with it. He could not think of anything, and he walked at +her side, inwardly chafing for the chance which would not come. + +When they reached her door there was a young man at the lock with a +latch-key, which he was not making work, for, after a bated blasphemy of +his failure, he turned and twitched the bell impatiently. + +Miss Lynde laughed provokingly, and he looked over his shoulder at her +and at Jeff, who felt his injury increased by the disadvantage this +young man put him at. Jeff was as correctly dressed; he wore a silk hat +of the last shape, and a long frock-coat; he was properly gloved and +shod; his clothes fitted him, and were from the best tailor; but +at sight of this young man in clothes of the same design he felt +ill-dressed. He was in like sort aware of being rudely blocked out +physically, and coarsely colored as to his blond tints of hair and +eye and cheek. Even the sinister something in the young man's look had +distinction, and there was style in the signs of dissipation in his +handsome face which Jeff saw with a hunger to outdo him. + +Miss Lynde said to Jeff, “My brother, Mr. Durgin,” and then she added +to the other, “You ought to ring first, Arthur, and try your key +afterward.” + +“The key's all right,” said the young man, without paying any attention +to Jeff beyond a glance of recognition; he turned his back, and waited +for the door to be opened. + +His sister suggested, with an amiability which Jeff felt was meant in +reparation to him, “Perhaps a night latch never works before dark--or +very well before midnight.” The door was opened, and she said to Jeff, +with winning entreaty, “Won't you come in, Mr. Durgin?” + +Jeff excused himself, for he perceived that her politeness was not so +much an invitation to him as a defiance to her brother; he gave her +credit for no more than it was worth, and he did not wish any the less +to get even with her because of it. + + + + +XXX. + +At dinner, in the absence of the butler, Alan Lynde attacked his sister +across the table for letting herself be seen with a jay, who was not +only a jay, but a cad, and personally so offensive to most of the +college men that he had never got into a decent club or society; he had +been suspended the first year, and if he had not had the densest kind +of cheek he would never have come back. Lynde said he would like to know +where she had picked the fellow up. + +She answered that she had picked him up, if that was the phrase he +liked, at Mrs. Bevidge's; and then Alan swore a little, so as not to be +heard by their aunt, who sat at the head of the table, and looked down +its length between them, serenely ignorant, in her slight deafness, +of what was going on between them. To her perception Alan was no more +vehement than usual, and Bessie no more smilingly self-contained. He +said he supposed that it was some more of Lancaster's damned missionary +work, then, and he wondered that a gentleman like Morland had ever let +Lancaster work such a jay in on him; he had seen her 'afficher' herself +with the fellow at Morland's tea; he commanded her to stop it; and he +professed to speak for her good. + +Bessie returned that she knew how strongly he felt from the way he had +misbehaved when she introduced him to Mr. Durgin, but that she supposed +he had been at the club and his nerves were unstrung. Was that the +reason, perhaps, why he could not make his latchkey work? Mr. Durgin +might be a cad, and she would not say he was not a jay, but so far he +had not sworn at her; and, if he had been suspended and come back, there +were some people who had not been suspended or come back, either, though +that might have been for want of cheek. + +She ended by declaring she was used to going into society without her +brother's protection, or even his company, and she would do her best to +get on without his advice. Or was it his conduct he wished her to profit +by? + +It had come to the fish going out by this time, and Alan, who had eaten +with no appetite, and drunken feverishly of apollinaris, flung down his +napkin and went out, too. + +“What is the matter?” asked his aunt, looking after him. + +Bessie shrugged, but she said, presently, with her lips more than her +voice: “I don't think he feels very well.” + +“Do you think he--” + +The girl frowned assent, and the meal went on to its end. Then she +and her aunt went into the large, dull library, where they passed the +evenings which Bessie did not spend in some social function. These +evenings were growing rather more frequent, with her advancing years, +for she was now nearly twenty-five, and there were few Seniors so old. +She was not the kind of girl to renew her youth with the Sophomores and +Freshmen in the classes succeeding the class with which she had danced +through college; so far as she had kept up the old relation with +students, she continued it with the men who had gone into the +law-school. But she saw less and less of these without seeing more of +other men, and perhaps in the last analysis she was not a favorite. She +was allowed to be fascinating, but she was not felt to be flattering, +and people would rather be flattered than fascinated. In fact, the men +were mostly afraid of her; and it has been observed of girls of this +kind that the men who are not afraid of them are such as they would do +well to be afraid of. Whether that was quite the case with Bessie Lynde +or not, it was certain that she who was always the cleverest girl in +the room, and if not the prettiest, then the most effective, had not the +best men about her. Her men were apt to be those whom the other girls +called stupid or horrid, and whom it would not be easy, though it might +be more just, to classify otherwise. The other girls wondered what she +could see in them; but perhaps it was not necessary that she should see +anything in them, if they could see all she wished them to see, and no +more, in her. + +The room where tea was now brought and put before her was volumed round +by the collections of her grandfather, except for the spaces filled by +his portrait and that of earlier ancestors, going back to the time when +Copley made masterpieces of his fellow-Bostonians. Her aunt herself +looked a family portrait of the middle period, a little anterior to her +father's, but subsequent to her great-grandfather's. She had a comely +face, with large, smooth cheeks and prominent eyes; the edges of her +decorous brown wig were combed rather near their corners, and a fitting +cap palliated but did not deny the wig. She had the quiet but rather +dull look of people slightly deaf, and she had perhaps been stupefied by +a life of unalloyed prosperity and propriety. She had grown an old maid +naturally, but not involuntarily, and she was without the sadness or +the harshness of disappointment. She had never known much of the world, +though she had always lived in it. She knew that it was made up of two +kinds of people--people who were like her and people who were not like +her; and she had lived solely in the society of people who were like +her, and in the shelter of their opinions and ideals. She did not +contemn or exclude the people who were unlike her, but she had never +had any more contact with them than she now had with the weather of the +streets, as she sat, filling her large arm-chair full of her ladylike +correctness, in the library of the handsome house her father had left +her. The irruption of her brother's son and daughter into its cloistered +quiet had scarcely broken its invulnerable order. It was right and fit +they should be there after his death, and it was not strange that in +the course of time they should both show certain unregulated tendencies +which, since they were not known to be Lynde tendencies, must have been +derived from the Southwestern woman her brother had married during his +social and financial periclitations in a region wholly inconceivable to +her. Their mother was dead, too, and their aunt's life closed about them +with full acceptance, if not complacence, as part of her world. They had +grown to manhood and womanhood without materially discomposing her +faith in the old-fashioned Unitarian deity, whose service she had always +attended. + +When Alan left college in his Freshman year, and did not go back, but +went rather to Europe and Egypt and Japan, it appeared to her myopic +optimism that his escapades had been pretty well hushed up by time and +distance. After he came home and devoted himself to his club, she could +have wished that he had taken up some profession or business; but since +there was money enough, she waited in no great disquiet until he showed +as decided a taste for something else as he seemed for the present to +have only for horses. In the mean while, from time to time, it came to +her doctor's advising his going to a certain retreat. But he came out +the first time so much better and remained well so long that his aunt +felt a kind of security in his going again and again, whenever he became +at all worse. He always came back better. As she took the cup of tea +that Bessie poured out for her, she recurred to the question that she +had partly asked already: + +“Do you think Alan is getting worse again?” + +“Not so very much,” said the girl, candidly. “He's been at the club, I +suppose, but he left the table partly because I vexed him.” + +“Because you what?” + +“Because I vexed him. He was scolding me, and I wouldn't stand it.” + +Her aunt tasted her tea, and found it so quite what she liked that she +said, from a natural satisfaction with Bessie, “I don't see what he had +to scold you about.” + +“Well,” returned Bessie, and she got her pretty voice to the level of +her aunt's hearing, with some straining, and kept it there, “when he is +in that state, he has to scold some one; and I had been rather annoying, +I suppose.” + +“What had you been doing?” asked her aunt, making out her words more +from the sight than from the sound, after all. + +“I had been walking home with a jay, and we found Alan trying to get in +at the front door with his key, and I introduced him to the jay.” + +Miss Louisa Lynde had heard the word so often from her niece and nephew, +that she imagined herself in full possession of its meaning. She asked: +“Where had you met him?” + +“I met him first,” said the girl, “at Willie Morland's tea, last week, +and to-day I found him at Mrs. Bevidge's altruistic toot.” + +“I didn't know,” said her aunt, after a momentary attention to her tea, +“that jays were interested in that sort of thing.” + +The girl laughed. “I believe they're not. It hasn't quite reached them, +yet; and I don't think it will ever reach my jay. Mrs. Bevidge tried +to work him into the cause, but he refused so promptly, and +so-intelligently, don't you know--and so almost brutally, that poor +Freddy Lancaster had to come and apologize to him for her want of tact.” + Bessie enjoyed the fact, which she had colored a little, in another +laugh, but she had apparently not possessed her aunt of the humor of it. +She remained seriously-attentive, and the girl went on: “He was not the +least abashed at having refused; he stayed till the last, and as we came +out together and he was going my way, I let him walk home with me. He's +a jay, but he isn't a common jay.” Bessie leaned forward and tried to +implant some notion of Jeff's character and personality in her aunt's +mind. + +Miss Lynde listened attentively enough, but she merely asked, when all +was said: “And why was Alan vexed with you about him?” + +“Well,” said the girl, falling back into her chair, “generally because +this man's a jay, and particularly because he's been rather a baddish +jay, I believe. He was suspended in his first year for something or +other, and you know poor Alan's very particular! But Molly Enderby says +Freddy Lancaster gives him the best of characters now.” Bessie pulled +down her mouth, with an effect befitting the notion of repentance and +atonement. Then she flashed out: “Perhaps he had been drinking when he +got into trouble. Alan could never forgive him for that.” + +“I think,” said her aunt, “it is to your brother's credit that he is +anxious about your associations.” + +“Oh, very much!” shouted Bessie, with a burst of laughter. “And as he +isn't practically so, I ought to have been more patient with his theory. +But when he began to scold me I lost my temper, and I gave him a few +wholesome truths in the guise of taunts. That was what made him go away, +I suppose.” + +“But I don't really see,” her aunt pursued,--“what occasion he had to be +angry with you in this instance.” + +“Oh, I do!” said Bessie. “Mr. Durgin isn't one to inspire the casual +beholder with the notion of his spiritual distinction. His face is so +rude and strong, and he has such a primitive effect in his clothes, that +you feel as if you were coming down the street with a prehistoric man +that the barbers and tailors had put a 'fin de siecle' surface on.” At +the mystification which appeared in her aunt's face the girl laughed +again. “I should have been quite as anxious, if I had been in Alan's +place, and I shall tell him so, sometime. If I had not been so +interested in the situation I don't believe I could have kept my +courage. Whenever I looked round, and found that prehistoric man at my +elbow, it gave me the creeps, a little, as if he were really carrying me +off to his cave. I shall try to express that to Alan.” + + + + +XXXI. + +The ladies finished their tea, and the butler came and took the +cups away. Miss Lynde remained silent in her chair at her end of the +library-table, and by-and-by Bessie got a book and began to read. When +her aunt woke up it was half past nine. “Was that Alan coming in?” she +asked. + +“I don't think he's been out,” said the girl. “It isn't late enough for +him to come in--or early enough.” + +“I believe I'll go to bed,” Miss Lynde returned. “I feel rather drowsy.” + +Bessie did not smile at a comedy which was apt to be repeated every +evening that she and her aunt spent at home together; they parted for +the night with the decencies of family affection, and Bessie delivered +the elder lady over to her maid. Then the girl sank down again, and +lay musing in her deep chair before the fire with her book shut on her +thumb. She looked rather old and worn in her reverie; her face lost +the air of gay banter which, after the beauty of her queer eyes and her +vivid mouth, was its charm. The eyes were rather dull now, and the mouth +was a little withered. + +She was waiting for her brother to come down, as he was apt to do if he +was in the house, after their aunt went to bed, to smoke a cigar in the +library. He was in his house shoes when he shuffled into the room, but +her ear had detected his presence before a hiccough announced it. She +did not look up, but let him make several failures to light his cigar, +and damn the matches under his breath, before she pushed the drop-light +to him in silent suggestion. As he leaned over her chair-back to reach +its chimney with his cigar in his mouth, she said, “You're all right, +Alan.” + +He waited till he got round to his aunt's easy-chair and dropped into it +before he answered, “So are you, Bess.” + +“I'm not so sure of that,” said the girl, “as I should be if you were +still scolding me. I knew that he was a jay, well enough, and I'd just +seen him behaving very like a cad to Mrs. Bevidge.” + +“Then I don't understand how you came to be with him.” + +“Oh yes, you do, Alan. You mustn't be logical! You might as well say +you can't understand how you came to be more serious than sober.” The +brother laughed helplessly. “It was the excitement.” + +“But you can't give way to that sort of thing, Bess,” said her brother, +with the gravity of a man feeling the consequences of his own errors. + +“I know I can't, but I do,” she returned. “I know it's bad for me, if it +isn't for other people. Come! I'll swear off if you will!” + +“I'm always ready, to swear off,” said the young man, gloomily. He +added, “But you've got brains, Bess, and I hate to see you playing the +fool.” + +“Do you really, Alan?” asked the girl, pleased perhaps as much by his +reproach as by his praise. “Do you think I've got brains?” + +“You're the only girl that has.” + +“Oh, I didn't mean to ask so much as that! But what's the reason I can't +do anything with them? Other girls draw, and play, and write. I don't +do anything but go in for the excitement that's bad for me. I wish you'd +explain it.” + +Alan Lynde did not try. The question seemed to turn his thoughts back +upon himself to dispiriting effect. “I've got brains, too, I believe,” + he began. + +“Lots of them!” cried his sister, generously. “There isn't any of the +men to compare with you. If I had you to talk with all the time, I +shouldn't want jays. I don't mean to flatter. You're a constant feast of +reason; I don't care for flows of soul. You always take right views of +things when you're yourself, and even when you're somebody else you're +not stupid. You could be anything you chose.” + +“The devil of it is I can't choose,” he replied. + +“Yes, I suppose that's the devil of it,” said the girl. + +“You oughtn't to use such language as that, Bess,” said her brother, +severely. + +“Oh, I don't with everybody,” she returned. “Never with ladies!” + +He looked at her out of the corner of his eye with a smile at once +rueful and comic. + +“You got me, I guess, that time,” he owned. + +“'Touche',' Mr. Durgin says. He fences, it seems, and he speaks French. +It was like an animal speaking French; you always expect them to speak +English. But I don't mind your swearing before me; I know that it helps +to carry off the electricity.” She laughed, and made him laugh with her. + +“Is there anything to him?” he growled, when they stopped laughing. + +“Yes, a good deal,” said Bessie, with an air of thoughtfulness; and +then she went on to tell all that Jeff had told her of himself, and +she described his aplomb in dealing with the benevolent Bevidge, as she +called her, and sketched his character, as it seemed to her. The sketch +was full of shrewd guesses, and she made it amusing to her brother, who +from the vantage of his own baddishness no doubt judged the original +more intelligently. + +“Well, you'd better let him alone, after this,” he said, at the end. + +“Yes,” she pensively assented. “I suppose it's as if you took to some +very common kind of whiskey, isn't it? I see what you mean. If one must, +it ought to be champagne.” + +She turned upon him a look of that keen but limited knowledge which +renders women's conjectures of evil always so amusing, or so pathetic, +to men. + +“Better let the champagne alone, too,” said her brother, darkly. + +“Yes, I know that,” she admitted, and she lay back in her chair, looking +dreamily into the fire. After a while she asked, abruptly: “Will you +give it up if I will?” + +“I am afraid I couldn't.” + +“You could try.” + +“Oh, I'm used to that.” + +“Then it's a bargain,” she said. She jumped from her chair and went over +to him, and smoothed his hair over his forehead and kissed the place she +had smoothed, though it was unpleasantly damp to her lips. “Poor boy, +poor boy! Now, remember! No more jays for me, and no more jags for you. +Goodnight.” + +Her brother broke into a wild laugh at her slanging, which had such a +bizarre effect in relation to her physical delicacy. + + + + +XXXII. + +Jeff did not know whether Miss Bessie Lynde meant to go to Mrs. +Bevidge's Thursdays or not. He thought she might have been bantering him +by what she said, and he decided that he would risk going to the first +of them on the chance of meeting her. She was not there, and there was +no one there whom he knew. Mrs. Bevidge made no effort to enlarge his +acquaintance, and after he had drunk a cup of her tea he went away with +rage against society in his heart, which he promised himself to vent at +the first chance of refusing its favors. But the chance seemed not to +come. The world which had opened its gates to him was fast shut again, +and he had to make what he could of renouncing it. He worked pretty +hard, and he renewed himself in his fealty to Cynthia, while his mind +strayed curiously to that other girl. But he had almost abandoned the +hope of meeting her again, when a large party was given on the eve of +the Harvard Mid-Year Examinations, which end the younger gayeties of +Boston, for a fortnight at least, in January. The party was so large +that the invitations overflowed the strict bounds of society at some +points. In the case of Jeff Durgin the excess was intentional beyond the +vague benevolence which prompted the giver of the party to ask certain +other outsiders. She was a lady of a soul several sizes larger than the +souls of some other society leaders; she was not afraid to do as she +liked; for instance, she had not only met the Vostrands at Westover's +tea, several years before, but she had afterward offered some +hospitalities to those ladies which had discharged her whole duty toward +them without involving her in any disadvantages. Jeff had been presented +to her at Westover's, but she disliked him so promptly and decidedly +that she had left him out of even the things that she asked some other +jays to, like lectures and parlor readings for good objects. It was not +until one of her daughters met him, first at Willie Morland's tea and +then at Mrs. Bevidge's meeting, that her social conscience concerned +itself with him. At the first her daughter had not spoken to him, as +might very well have happened, since Bessie Lynde had kept him away with +her nearly all the time; but at the last she had bowed pleasantly to him +across the room, and Jeff had responded with a stiff obeisance, whose +coldness she felt the more for having been somewhat softened herself in +Mrs. Bevidge's altruistic atmosphere. + +“I think he was hurt, mamma,” the girl explained to her mother, “that +you've never had him to anything. I suppose they must feel it.” + +“Oh, well, send him a card, then,” said her mother; and when Jeff got +the card, rather near the eleventh hour, he made haste to accept, not +because he cared to go to Mrs. Enderby's house, but because he hoped he +should meet Miss Lynde there. + +Bessie was the first person he met after he turned from paying his +duty to the hostess. She was with her aunt, and she presented him, and +promised him a dance, which she let him write on her card. She sat out +another dance with him, and he took her to supper. + +To Westover, who had gone with the increasing forlornness a man feels in +such pleasures after thirty-five, it seemed as if the two were in each +other's company the whole evening. The impression was so strong with him +that when Jeff restored Bessie to her aunt for the dance that was to be +for some one else, and came back to the supper-room, the painter tried +to satisfy a certain uneasiness by making talk with him. But Jeff would +not talk; he got away with a bottle of champagne, which he had captured, +and a plate heaped with croquettes and pease, and galantine and salad. +There were no ladies left in the room by that time, and few young men; +but the oldsters crowded the place, with their bald heads devoutly bowed +over their victual, or their frosty mustaches bathed in their drink, +singly or in groups; the noise of their talk and laughter mixed with +the sound of their eating and drinking, and the clash of the knives and +dishes. Over their stooped shoulders and past their rounded stomachs +Westover saw Alan Lynde vaguely making his way with a glass in his hand, +and looking vaguely about for wine; he saw Jeff catch his wandering +eye, and make offer of his bottle, and then saw Lynde, after a moment of +haughty pause, unbend and accept it. His thin face was flushed, and his +hair tossed over his forehead, but Jeff seemed not to take note of that. +He laughed boisterously at something Lynde said, and kept filling his +glass for him. His own color remained clear and cool. It was as if his +powerful physique absorbed the wine before it could reach his brain. + +Westover wanted to interfere, and so far as Jeff was concerned he would +not have hesitated; but Lynde was concerned, too, and you cannot save +such a man from himself without offence. He made his way to the young +man, hoping he might somehow have the courage he wanted. + +Jeff held up the bottle, and called to him, “Get yourself a glass, Mr. +Westover.” He put on the air of a host, and would hardly be denied. +“Know Mr. Westover, Mr. Lynde? Just talking about you,” he explained to +Westover. + +Alan had to look twice at the painter. “Oh yes. Mr. Durgin, +here--telling me about his place in the mountains. Says you've been +there. Going--going myself in the summer. See his--horses.” He made +pauses between his words as some people do when they, try to keep from +stammering. + +Westover believed Lynde understood Jeff to be a country gentleman +of sporting tastes, and he would not let that pass. “Yes, it's the +pleasantest little hotel in the mountains.” + +“Strictly-temperance, I suppose?” said Alan, trying to smile with lips +that obeyed him stiffly. He appeared not to care who or what Jeff was; +the champagne had washed away all difference between them. He went on to +say that he had heard of Jeff's intention of running the hotel himself +when he got out of Harvard. He held it to be damned good stuff. + +Jeff laughed. “Your sister wouldn't believe me when I told her.” + +“I think I didn't mention Miss Lynde,” said Alan, haughtily. + +Jeff filled his glass; Alan looked at it, faltered, and then drank it +off. The talk began again between the young men, but it left Westover +out, and he had to go away. Whether Jeff was getting Lynde beyond +himself from the love of mischief, such as had prompted him to tease +little children in his boyhood, or was trying to ingratiate himself with +the young fellow through his weakness, or doing him harm out of mere +thoughtlessness, Westover came away very unhappy at what he had seen. +His unhappiness connected itself so distinctly with Lynde's family +that he went and sat down beside Miss Lynde from an obscure impulse of +compassion, and tried to talk with her. It would not have been so +hard if she were merely deaf, for she had the skill of deaf people in +arranging the conversation so that a nodded yes or no would be all that +was needed to carry it forward. But to Westover she was terribly dull, +and he was gasping, as in an exhausted receiver, when Bessie came up +with a smile of radiant recognition for his extremity. She got rid of +her partner, and devoted herself at once to Westover. “How good of you!” + she said, without giving him the pain of an awkward disclaimer. + +He could counter in equal sincerity and ambiguity, “How beautiful of +you.” + +“Yes,” she said, “I am looking rather well, tonight; but don't you think +effective would have been a better word?” She smiled across her aunt at +him out of a cloud of pink, from which her thin shoulders and slender +neck emerged, and her arms, gloved to the top, fell into her lap; one of +them seemed to terminate naturally in the fan which sensitively shared +the inquiescence of her person. + +“I will say effective, too, if you insist,” said Westover. “But at the +same time you're the most beautiful person here.” + +“How lovely of you, even if you don't mean it,” she sighed. “If girls +could have more of those things said to them, they would be better, +don't you think? Or at least feel better.” + +Westover laughed. “We might organize a society--they have them for +nearly everything now--for saying pleasant things to young ladies with a +view to the moral effect.” + +“Oh, do I.” + +“But it ought to be done conscientiously, and you couldn't go round +telling every one that she was the most beautiful girl in the room.” + +“Why not? She'd believe it!” + +“Yes; but the effect on the members of the society?” + +“Oh yes; that! But you could vary it so as to save your conscience. You +could say, 'How divinely you're looking!' or 'How angelic!' or 'You're +the very poetry of motion,' or 'You are grace itself,' or 'Your gown is +a perfect dream, or any little commonplace, and every one would take it +for praise of her personal appearance, and feel herself a great beauty, +just as I do now, though I know very well that I'm all out of drawing, +and just chicqued together.” + +“I couldn't allow any one but you to say that, Miss Bessie; and I only +let it pass because you say it so well.” + +“Yes; you're always so good! You wouldn't contradict me even when you +turned me out of your class.” + +“Did I turn you out of my class?” + +“Not just in so many words, but when I said I couldn't do anything in +art, you didn't insist that it was because I wouldn't, and of course +then I had to go. I've never forgiven you, Mr. Westover, never! Do keep +on talking very excitedly; there's a man coming up to us that I don't +want to think I see him, or he'll stop. There! He's veered off! Where +were you, Mr. Westover?” + +“Ah, Miss Bessie,” said the painter; delighted at her drama, “there +isn't anything you couldn't do if you would.” + +“You mean parlor entertainments; impersonations; impressions; that sort +of thing? I have thought of it. But it would be too easy. I want to try +something difficult.” + +“For instance.” + +“Well, being very, very good. I want something that would really tax my +powers. I should like to be an example. I tried it the other night just +before I went to sleep, and it was fine. I became an example to others. +But when I woke up--I went on in the old way. I want something hard, +don't you know; but I want it to be easy!” + +She laughed, and Westover said: “I am glad you're not serious. No one +ought to be an example to others. To be exemplary is as dangerous as to +be complimentary. + +“It certainly isn't so agreeable to the object,” said the girl. “But +it's fine for the subject as long as it lasts. How metaphysical we're +getting! The objective and the subjective. It's quite what I should +expect of talk at a Boston dance if I were a New-Yorker. Have you seen +anything of my brother, within the last hour or so, Mr. Westover?” + +“Yes; I just left him in the supper-room. Shall I go get him for you?” + When he had said this, with the notion of rescuing him from Jeff, +Westover was sorry, for he doubted if Alan Lynde were any longer in the +state to be brought away from the supper-room, and he was glad to have +Bessie say: + +“No, no. He'll look us up in the course of the evening--or the morning.” + A young fellow came to claim her for a dance, and Westover had not the +face to leave Miss Lynde, all the less because she told him he must not +think of staying. He stayed till the dance was over, and Bessie came +back to him. + +“What time is it, Mr. Westover? I see my aunt beginning to nod on her +perch.” + +Westover looked at his watch. “It's ten minutes past two.” + +“How early!” sighed the girl. “I'm tired of it, aren't you?” + +“Very,” said Westover. “I was tired an hour ago.” + +Bessie sank back in her chair with an air of nervous collapse, and did +not say anything. Westover saw her watching the young couples who passed +in and out of the room where the dancing was, or found corners on +sofas, or window-seats, or sheltered spaces beside the doors and the +chimney-piece, the girls panting and the men leaning forward to fan +them. She looked very tired of it; and when a young fellow came up and +asked her to dance, she told him that she was provisionally engaged. +“Come back and get me, if you can't do better,” she said, and he +answered there was no use trying to do better, and said he would wait +till the other man turned up, or didn't, if she would let him. He sat +down beside her, and some young talk began between them. + +In the midst of it Jeff appeared. He looked at Westover first, and then +approached with an embarrassed face. + +Bessie got vividly to her feet. “No apologies, Mr. Durgin, please! But +in just another moment you'd have last your dance.” + +Westover saw what he believed a change pass in Jeff's look from +embarrassment to surprise and then to flattered intelligence. He beamed +all over; and he went away with Bessie toward the ballroom, and left +Westover to a wholly unsupported belief that she had not been engaged to +dance with Jeff. He wondered what her reckless meaning could be, but he +had always thought her a young lady singularly fitted by nature and art +to take care of herself, and when he reasoned upon what was in his mind +he had to own that there was no harm in Jeff's dancing with her. + +He took leave of Miss Lynde, and was going to get his coat and hat for +his walk home when he was mysteriously stopped in a corner of the stairs +by one of the caterer's men whom he knew. It is so unnatural to be +addressed by a servant at all unless he asks you if you will have +something to eat or drink, that Westover was in a manner prepared to +have him say something startling. “It's about young Mr. Lynde, sor. +We've got um in one of the rooms up-stairs, but he ain't fit to go home +alone, and I've been lookin' for somebody that knows the family to help +get um into a car'ge. He won't go for anny of us, sor.” + +“Where is he?” asked Westover, in anguish at being unable to refuse the +appeal, but loathing the office put upon him. + +“I'll show you, sor,” said the caterer's man, and he sprang up the +stairs before Westover, with glad alacrity. + + + + +XXXIII. + +In a little room at the side of that where the men's hats and coats were +checked, Alan Lynde sat drooping forward in an arm-chair, with his head +fallen on his breast. He roused himself at the flash of the burner which +the man turned up. “What's all this?” he demanded, haughtily. “Where's +the carriage? What's the matter?” + +“Your carriage is waiting, Lynde,” said Westover. “I'll see you down to +it,” and he murmured, hopelessly, to the caterer's man: “Is there any +back way?” + +“There's the wan we got um up by.” + +“It will do,” said Westover, as simply. + +But Lynde called out, defiantly: “Back way; I sha'n't go down back way. +Inshult to guest. I wish--say--good-night to--Mrs. Enderby. Who you, +anyway? Damn caterer's man?” + +“I'm Westover, Lynde,” the painter began, but the young fellow broke in +upon him, shaking his hand and then taking his arm. + +“Oh, Westover! All right! I'll go down back way with you. +Thought--thought it was damn caterer's man. No--offence.” + +“No. It's all right.” Westover got his arm under Lynde's elbow, and, +with the man going before for them to fall upon jointly in case they +should stumble, he got him down the dark and twisting stairs and through +the basement hall, which was vaguely haunted by the dispossessed women +servants of the family, and so out upon the pavement of the moonlighted +streets. + +“Call Miss Lynde's car'ge,” shouted the caterer's man to the barker, and +escaped back into the basement, leaving Westover to stay his helpless +charge on the sidewalk. + +It seemed a publication of the wretch's shame when the barker began to +fill the night with hoarse cries of, “Miss Lynde's carriage; carriage +for Miss Lynde!” The cries were taken up by a coachman here and there in +the rank of vehicles whose varnished roofs shone in the moon up and down +the street. After a time that Westover of course felt to be longer than +it was, Miss Lynde's old coachman was roused from his sleep on the box +and started out of the rank. He took in the situation with the eye of +custom, when he saw Alan supported on the sidewalk by a stranger at the +end of the canopy covering the pavement. + +He said, “Oh, ahl right, sor!” and when the two white-gloved policemen +from either side of it helped Westover into the carriage with Lynde, he +set off at a quick trot. The policemen clapped their hands together, +and smiled across the strip of carpet that separated them, and winks and +nods of intelligence passed among the barkers to the footmen about the +curb and steps. There were none of them sorry to see a gentleman in that +state; some of them had perhaps seen Alan in that state before. + +Half-way home he roused himself and put his hand on the carriage-door +latch. “Tell the coachman drive us to--the--club. Make night of it.” + +“No, no,” said Westover, trying to restrain him. “We'd better go right +on to your house.” + +“Who--who--who are you?” demanded Alan. + +“Westover.” + +“Oh yes--Westover. Thought we left Westover at Mrs. Enderby's. Thought +it was that jay--What's his name? Durgin. He's awful jay, but civil +to me, and I want be civil to him. You're not--jay? No? That's right. +Fellow made me sick; but I took his champagne; and I must show him +some--attention.” He released the door-handle, and fell back against +the cushioned carriage wall. “He's a blackguard!” he said, sourly. +“Not--simple jay-blackguard, too. No--no--business bring in my sister's +name, hey? You--you say it's--Westover? Oh yes, Westover. Old friend of +family. Tell you good joke, Westover--my sister's. No more jays for me, +no more jags for you. That's what she say--just between her and me, you +know; she's a lady, Bess is; knows when to use--slang. Mark--mark of a +lady know when to use slang. Pretty good--jays and jags. Guess we didn't +count this time--either of us.” + +When the carriage pulled up before Miss Lynde's house, Westover opened +the door. “You're at home, now, Lynde. Come, let's get out.” + +Lynde did not stir. He asked Westover again who he was, and when he had +made sure of him, he said, with dignity, Very well; now they must get +the other fellow. Westover entreated; he even reasoned; Lynde lay back +in the corner of the carriage, and seemed asleep. + +Westover thought of pulling him up and getting him indoors by main +force. He appealed to the coachman to know if they could not do it +together. + +“Why, you see, I couldn't leave me harsses, sor,” said the coachman. +“What's he wants, sor?” He bent urbanely down from his box and listened +to the explanation that Westover made him, standing in the cold on the +curbstone, with one hand on the carriage door. “Then it's no use, sor,” + the man decided. “Whin he's that way, ahl hell couldn't stir um. Best go +back, sor, and try to find the gentleman.” + +This was in the end what Westover had to do, feeling all the time that +a thing so frantically absurd could not be a waking act, but helpless +to escape from its performance. He thought of abandoning his charge and +leaving him, to his fate when he opened the carriage door before Mrs. +Enderby's house; but with the next thought he perceived that this was +on all accounts impossible. He went in, and began his quest for Jeff, +sending various serving men about with vague descriptions of him, and +asking for him of departing guests, mostly young men he did not know, +but who, he thought, might know Jeff. + +He had to take off his overcoat at last, and reappear at the ball. The +crowd was still great, but visibly less dense than it had been. By a +sudden inspiration he made his way to the supper-room, and he found Jeff +there, filling a plate, as if he were about to carry it off somewhere. +He commanded Jeff's instant presence in the carriage outside; he told +him of Alan's desire for him. + +Jeff leaned back against the wall with the plate in his hand and laughed +till it half slipped from his hold. When he could get his breath, he +said: “I'll be back in a few minutes; I've got to take this to Miss +Bessie Lynde. But I'll be right back.” + +Westover hardly believed him. But when he got on his own things again, +Jeff joined him in his hat and overcoat, and they went out together. + +It was another carriage that stopped the way now, and once more the +barker made the night ring with what Westover felt his heartless and +shameless cries for Miss Lynde's carriage. After a maddening delay, it +lagged up to the curb and Jeff pulled the door open. + +“Hello!” he said. “There's nobody here!” + +“Nobody there?” cried Westover, and they fell upon the coachman with +wild question and reproach; the policeman had to tell him at last that +the carriage must move on, to make way for others. + +The coachman had no explanation to offer: he did not know how or when +Mr. Alan had got away. + +“But you can give a guess where he's gone?” Jeff suggested, with a +presence of mind which Westover mutely admired. + +“Well, sor, I know where he do be gahn, sometimes,” the man admitted. + +“Well, that will do; take me there,” said Jeff. “You go in and account +for me to Miss Lynde,” he instructed Westover, across his shoulder. +“I'll get him home before morning, somehow; and I'll send the carriage +right back for the ladies, now.” + +Westover had the forethought to decide that Miss Bessie should ask for +Jeff if she wanted him, and this simplified matters very much. She asked +nothing about him. At sight of Westover coming up to her where she sat +with her aunt, she merely said: “Why, Mr. Westover! I thought you took +leave of this scene of gayety long ago.” + +“Did you?” Westover returned, provisionally, and she saved him from the +sin of framing some deceit in final answer by her next question. + +“Have you seen anything of Alan lately?” she asked, in a voice +involuntarily lowered. + +Westover replied in the same octave: “Yes; I saw him going a good while +ago.” + +“Oh!” said the girl. “Then I think my aunt and I had better go, too.” + +Still she did not go, and there was an interval in which she had the air +of vaguely waiting. To Westover's vision, the young people still passing +to and from the ballroom were like the painted figures of a picture +quickened with sudden animation. There were scarcely any elders to +be seen now, except the chaperons, who sat in their places with iron +fortitude; Westover realized that he was the only man of his age left. +He felt that the lights ought to have grown dim, but the place was as +brilliant as ever. A window had been opened somewhere, and the cold +breath of the night was drawing through the heated rooms. + +He was content to have Bessie stay on, though he was almost dropping +with sleep, for he was afraid that if she went at once, the carriage +might not have got back, and the whole affair must somehow be given +away; at last, if she were waiting, she decided to wait no longer, and +then Westover did not know how to keep her. He saw her rise and stoop +over her aunt, putting her mouth to the elder lady's ear, and he heard +her saying, “I am going home, Aunt Louisa.” She turned sweetly to him. +“Won't you let us set you down, Mr. Westover?” + +“Why, thank you, I believe I prefer walking. But do let me have your +carriage called,” and again he hurried himself into his overcoat and +hat, and ran down-stairs, and the barker a third time sent forth his +lamentable cries in summons of Miss Lynde's carriage. + +While he stood on the curb-stone eagerly peering up and down the street, +he heard, without being able either to enjoy or resent it, one of the +policemen say across him to the other, “Miss lynde seems to be doin' a +livery-stable business to-night.” + +Almost at the moment a carriage drove up, and he recognized Miss Lynde's +coachman, who recognized him. + +“Just got back, sor,” he whispered, and a minute later Bessie came +daintily out over the carpeted way with her aunt. + +“How good of you!” she said, and “Good-night, Mr. Westover,” said Miss +Lynde, with an implication in her voice that virtue was peculiarly its +own reward for those who performed any good office for her or hers. + +Westover shut them in, the carriage rolled off, and he started on his +homeward walk with a long sigh of relief. + + + + +XXXIV. + +Bessie asked the sleepy man who opened her aunt's door whether her +brother had come in yet, and found that he had not. She helped her aunt +off up-stairs with her maid, and when she came down again she sent the +man to bed; she told him she was going to sit up and she would let +her brother in. The caprices of Alan's latch-key were known to all the +servants, and the man understood what she, meant. He said he had left +a light in the reception-room and there was a fire there; and Bessie +tripped on down from the library floor, where she had met him. She had +put off her ball dress and had slipped into the simplest and easiest +of breakfast frocks, which was by no means plain. Bessie had no plain +frocks for any hour of the day; her frocks all expressed in stuff and +style and color, and the bravery of their flying laces and ribbons, the +audacity of spirit with which she was herself chicqued together, as she +said. This one she had on now was something that brightened her dull +complexion, and brought out the best effect of her eyes and mouth, and +seemed the effluence of her personal dash and grace. It made the most +of her, and she liked it beyond all her other negligees for its +complaisance. + +She got a book, and sat down in a long, low chair before the fire and +crossed her pretty slippers on the warm hearth. It was a quarter after +three by the clock on the mantel; but she had never felt more eagerly +awake. The party had not been altogether to her mind, up to midnight, +but after that it had been a series of rapid and vivid emotions, which +continued themselves still in the tumult of her nerves, and seemed to +demand an indefinite sequence of experience. She did not know what state +her brother might be in when he came home; she had not seen anything of +him after she first went out to supper; till then, though, he had kept +himself straight, as he needs must; but she could not tell what happened +to him afterward. She hoped that he would come home able to talk, for +she wished to talk. She wished to talk about herself; and as she had +already had flattery enough, she wanted some truth about herself; she +wanted Alan to say what he thought of her behavior the whole evening +with that jay. He must have seen something of it in the beginning, and +she should tell him all the rest. She should tell him just how often she +had danced with the man, and how many dances she had sat out with him; +how she had pretended once that she was engaged when another man asked +her, and then danced with the jay, to whom she pretended that he had +engaged her for the dance. She had wished to see how he would take it; +for the same reason she had given to some one else a dance that was +really his. She would tell Alan how the jay had asked her for that last +dance, and then never come near her again. That would give him the whole +situation, and she would know just what he thought of it. + +What she thought of herself she hardly knew, or made believe she hardly +knew. She prided herself upon not being a flirt; she might not be very +good, as goodness went, but she was not despicable, and a flirt was +despicable. She did not call the audacity of her behavior with the jay +flirting; he seemed to understand it as well as she, and to meet her +in her own spirit; she wondered now whether this jay was really more +interesting than the other men one met, or only different; whether he +was original, like Alan himself, or merely novel, and would soon wear +down to the tiresomeness that seemed to underlie them all, and made one +wish to do something dreadful. In the jay's presence she had no wish to +do anything dreadful. Was it because he was dreadful enough for both, +all the time, without doing anything? She would like to ask Alan that, +and see how he would take it. Nothing seemed to put the jay out, so far +as she had tried, and she had tried some bold impertinences with him. He +was very jolly through them all, and at the worst of them he laughed and +asked her for that dance, which he never came to claim, though in the +mean time he brought her some belated supper, and was devoted to her and +her aunt, inventing services to do for them. Then suddenly he went off +and did not return, and Mr. Westover mysteriously reappeared, and got +their carriage. + +She heard a scratching at the key-hole of the outside door; she knew it +was Alan's latch. She had left the inner door ajar that there might be +no uncertainty of hearing him, and she ran out into the space between +that and the outer door where the fumbling and scraping kept on. + +“Is that you, Alan?” she called, softly, and if she had any doubt +before, she had none when she heard her brother outside, cursing his +luck with his key as usual. + +She flung the door open, and confronted him with another man, who had +his arms around him as if he had caught him from falling with the inward +pull of the door. Alan got to his feet and grappled with the man, and +insisted that he should come in and make a night of it. + +Bessie saw that it was Jeff, and they stood a moment, looking at each +other. Jeff tried to free himself with an appeal to Bessie: “I beg your +pardon, Miss Lynde. I walked home with your brother, and I was just +helping him to get in--I didn't think that you--” + +Alan said, with his measured distinctness: “Nobody cares what you think. +Come in, and get something to carry you over the bridge. Cambridge cars +stopped running long ago. I say you shall!” He began to raise his voice. +A light flashed in a window across the way, and a sash was lifted; some +one must be looking out. + +“Oh, come in with him!” Bessie implored, and at a little yielding in +Jeff her brother added: + +“Come in, you damn jay!” He pulled at Jeff. + +Jeff made haste to shut the door behind them. He was laughing; and if it +was from mere brute insensibility to what would have shocked another in +the situation, his frank recognition of its grotesqueness was of better +effect than any hopeless effort to ignore it would have been. People +adjust themselves to their trials; it is the pretence of the witness +that there is no trial which hurts, and Bessie was not wounded by Jeff's +laugh. + +“There's a fire here in the reception-room,” she said. “Can you get him +in?” + +“I guess so.” + +Jeff lifted Alan into the room and stayed him on foot there, while he +took off his hat and overcoat, and then he let him sink into the low +easy-chair Bessie had just risen from. All the time, Alan was +bidding her ring and have some champagne and cold meat set out on the +side-board, and she was lightly promising and coaxing. But he drowsed +quickly in the warmth, and the last demand for supper died half uttered +on his lips. + +Jeff asked across him: “Can't I get him up-stairs for you? I can carry +him.” + +She shook her head and whispered back, “I can leave him here,” and +she looked at Jeff with a moment's hesitation. “Did you--do you think +that--any one noticed him at Mrs. Enderby's?” + +“No; they had got him in a room by himself--the caterer's men had.” + +“And you found him there?” + +“Mr. Westover found him there,” Jeff answered. + +“I don't understand.” + +“Didn't he come to you after I left?” + +“Yes.” + +“I told him to excuse me--” + +“He didn't.” + +“Well, I guess he was pretty badly rattled.” Jeff stopped himself in +the vague laugh of one who remembers something ludicrous, and turned his +face away. + +“Tell me what it was!” she demanded, nervously. + +“Mr. Westover had been home with him once, and he wouldn't stay. He made +Mr. Westover come back for me.” + +“What did he want with you?” + +Jeff shrugged. + +“And then what?” + +“We went out to the carriage, as soon as I could get away from you; but +he wasn't in it. I sent Mr. Westover back to you and set out to look for +him.” + +“That was very good of you. And I--thank you for your kindness to my +brother. I shall not forget it. And I wish to beg your pardon.” + +“What for?” asked Jeff, bluntly. + +“For blaming you when you didn't come back for the dance.” + +If Bessie had meant nothing but what was fitting to the moment some +inherent lightness of nature played her false. But even the histrionic +touch which she could not keep out of her voice, her manner, another +sort of man might have found merely pathetic. + +Jeff laughed with subtle intelligence. “Were you very hard on me?” + +“Very,” she answered in kind, forgetting her brother and the whole +terrible situation. + +“Tell me what you thought of me,” he said, and he came a little nearer +to her, looking very handsome and very strong. “I should like to know.” + +“I said I should never speak to you again.” + +“And you kept your word,” said Jeff. “Well, that's all right. +Good-night-or good-morning, whichever it is.” He took her hand, which +she could not withdraw, or feigned to herself that she could not +withdraw, and looked at her with a silent laugh, and a hardy, sceptical +glance that she felt take in every detail of her prettiness, her +plainness. Then he turned and went out, and she ran quickly and locked +the door upon him. + + + + +XXXV. + +Bessie crept up to her room, where she spent the rest of the night +in her chair, amid a tumult of emotion which she would have called +thinking. She asked herself the most searching questions, but she got no +very candid answers to them, and she decided that she must see the whole +fact with some other's eyes before she could know what she had meant or +what she had done. + +When she let the daylight into her room, it showed her a face in her +mirror that bore no trace of conflicting anxieties. Her complexion +favored this effect of inward calm; it was always thick; and her eyes +seemed to her all the brighter for their vigils. + +A smile, even, hovered on her mouth as she sat down at the +breakfast-table, in the pretty negligee she had worn all night, and +poured out Miss Lynde's coffee for her. + +“That's always very becoming to you, Bessie,” said her aunt. “It's the +nicest breakfast gown you have.” + +“Do you think so?” Bessie looked down at it, first on one side and then +on the other, as a woman always does when her dress is spoken of. + +“Mr. Alan said he would have his breakfast in his room, miss,” murmured +the butler, in husky respectfulness, as he returned to Bessie from +carrying Miss Lynde's cup to her. “He don't want anything but a little +toast and coffee.” + +She perceived that the words were meant to make it easy for her to ask: +“Isn't he very well, Andrew?” + +“About as usual, miss,” said Andrew, a thought more sepulchral than +before. “He's going on--about as usual.” + +She knew this to mean that he was going on from bad to worse, and that +his last night's excess was the beginning of a debauch which could end +only in one way. She must send for the doctor; he would decide what was +best, when he saw how Alan came through the day. + +Late in the afternoon she heard Mary Enderby's voice in the +reception-room, bidding the man say that if Miss Bessie were lying down +she would come up to her, or would go away, just as she wished. She flew +downstairs with a glad cry of “Molly! What an inspiration! I was just +thinking of you, and wishing for you. But I didn't suppose you were up +yet!” + +“It's pretty early,” said Miss Enderby. “But I should have been here +before if I could, for I knew I shouldn't wake you, Bessie, with +your habit of turning night into day, and getting up any time in the +forenoon.” + +“How dissipated you sound!” + +“Yes, don't I? But I've been thinking about you ever since I woke, and I +had to come and find out if you were alive, anyhow.” + +“Come up-stairs and see!” said Bessie, holding her friend's hand on the +sofa where they had dropped down together, and going all over the scene +of last night in that place for the thousandth time. + +“No, no; I really mustn't. I hope you had a good time?” + +“At your house!” + +“How dear of you! But, Bessie, I got to thinking you'd been rather +sacrificed. It came into my mind the instant I woke, and gave me this +severe case of conscience. I suppose it's a kind of conscience.” + +“Yes, yes. Go on! I like having been a martyr, if I don't know what +about.” + +“Why, you know, Bessie, or if you don't you will presently, that it was +I who got mamma to send him a card; I felt rather sorry for him, that +day at Mrs. Bevidge's, because she'd so obviously got him there to use +him, and I got mamma to ask him. Everything takes care of itself, at a +large affair, and I thought I might trust in Providence to deal with +him after he came; and then I saw you made a means the whole evening! I +didn't reflect that there always has to be a means!” + +“It's a question of Mr. Durgin?” said Bessie, coldly thrilling at the +sound of a name that she pronounced so gayly in a tone of sympathetic +amusement. + +Miss Enderby bobbed her head. “It shows that we ought never to do a good +action, doesn't it? But, poor thing! How you must have been swearing +off!” + +“I don't know. Was it so very bad? I'm trying to think,” said Bessie, +thinking that after this beginning it would be impossible to confide in +Mary Enderby. + +“Oh, now, Bessie! Don't you be patient, or I shall begin to lose my +faith in human nature. Just say at once that it was an outrage and I'll +forgive you! You see,” Miss Enderby went on, “it isn't merely that he's +a jay; but he isn't a very nice jay. None of the men like him--except +Freddy Lancaster, of course; he likes everybody, on principle; he +doesn't count. I thought that perhaps, although he's so crude and blunt, +he might be sensitive and high-minded; you're always reading about such +things; but they say he isn't, in the least; oh, not the least! They say +he goes with a set of fast jays, and that he's dreadful; though he has +a very good mind, and could do very well if he chose. That's what cousin +Jim said to-day; he's just been at our house; and it was so extremely +telepathic that I thought I must run round and prevent your having the +man on your conscience if you felt you had had too much of him. You +won't lay him up against us, will you?” She jumped to her feet. + +“You dear!” said Bessie, keeping Mary Enderby's hand, and pressing it +between both of hers against her breast as they now stood face to face, +“do come up and have some tea!” + +“No, no! Really, I can't.” + +They were both involuntarily silent. The door had been opened to some +one, and there was a brief parley, which ended in a voice they knew to +be the doctor's, saying, “Then I'll go right up to his room.” Both the +girls broke into laughing adieux, to hide their consciousness that the +doctor was going up to see Alan Lynde, who was never sick except in the +one way. + +Miss Enderby even said: “I was so glad to see Alan looking so well, last +night.” + +“Yes, he had such a good time,” said Bessie, and she followed her friend +to the door, where she kissed her reassuringly, and thanked her for +taking all the trouble she had, bidding her not be the least anxious on +her account. + +It seemed to her that she should sink upon the stairs in mounting +them to the library. Mary Enderby had told her only what she had known +before; it was what her brother had told her; but then it had not been +possible for the man to say that he had brought Alan home tipsy, and +been alone in the house with her at three o'clock in the morning. He +would not only boast of it to all that vulgar comradehood of his, but +it might get into those terrible papers which published the society +scandals. There would be no way but to appeal to his pity, his +generosity. She fancied herself writing to him, but he could show her +note, and she must send for him to come and see her, and try to put him +on his honor. Or, that would not do, either. She must make it happen +that they should be thrown together, and then speak to him. Even that +might make him think she was afraid of him; or he might take it wrong, +and believe that she cared for him. He had really been very good to +Alan, and she tried to feel safe in the thought of that. She did feel +safe for a moment; but if she had meant nothing but to make him believe +her grateful, what must he infer from her talking to him in the light +way she did about forgiving him for not coming back to dance with her. +Her manner, her looks, her tone, had given him the right to say that +she had been willing to flirt with him there, at that hour, and in those +dreadful circumstances. + +She found herself lying in a deep arm-chair in the library, when she was +aware of Dr. Lacy pausing at the door and looking tentatively in upon +her. + +“Come in, doctor,” she said, and she knew that her face was wet with +tears, and that she spoke with the voice of weeping. + +He came forward and looked narrowly at her, without sitting down. +“There's nothing to be alarmed about, Miss Bessie,” he said. “But I +think your brother had better leave home again, for a while.” + +“Yes,” she said, blankly. Her mind was not on his words. + +“I will make the arrangements.” + +“Thank you,” said Bessie, listlessly. + +The doctor had made a step backward, as if he were going away, and now +he stopped. “Aren't you feeling quite well, Miss Bessie?” + +“Oh yes,” she said, and she began to cry. + +The doctor came forward and said, cheerily: “Let me see.” He pulled a +chair up to hers, and took her wrist between his fingers. “If you were +at Mrs. Enderby's last night, you'll need another night to put you just +right. But you're pretty well as it is.” He let her wrist softly go, +and said: “You mustn't distress yourself about your brother's case. +Of course, it's hard to have it happen now after he's held up so long; +longer than it has been before, I think, isn't it? But it's something +that it has been so long. The next time, let us hope, it will be longer +still.” + +The doctor made as if to rise. Bessie put her hand out to stay him. +“What is it makes him do it?” + +“Ah, that's a great mystery,” said the doctor. “I suppose you might say +the excitement.” + +“Yes!” + +“But it seems to me very often, in such cases, as if it were to escape +the excitement. I think you're both keyed up pretty sharply by nature, +Miss Bessie,” said the doctor, with the personal kindness he felt for +the girl, and the pity softening his scientific spirit. + +“I know!” she answered. “We're alike. Why don't I take to drinking, +too?” + +The doctor laughed at such a question from a young lady, but with an +inner seriousness in his laugh, as if, coming from a patient, it was +to be weighed. “Well, I suppose it isn't the habit of your sex, Miss +Bessie.” + +“Sometimes it is. Sometimes women get drunk, and then I think they +do less harm than if they did other things to get away from the +excitement.” She longed to confide in him; the words were on her tongue; +she believed he could help her, tell her what to do; out of his stores +of knowledge and experience he must have some suggestion, some remedy; +he could advise her; he could stand her friend, so far. People told +their doctors all kinds of things, silly things. Why should she not tell +her doctor this? + +It would have been easier if it had been an older man, who might have +had a daughter of her age. But he was in that period of the early +forties when a doctor sometimes has a matter-of-fact, disagreeable +wife whose idea stands between him and the spiritual intimacy of his +patients, so that it seems as if they were delivering their confidences +rather to her than to him. He was able, he was good, he was extremely +acute, he was even with the latest facts and theories; but as he sat +straight up in his chair his stomach defined itself as a half-moon +before him, and he said to the quivering heap of emotions beside him, +“You mean like breaking hearts, and such little matters?” + +It was fatally stupid, and it beat her back into herself. + +“Yes,” she said, with a contempt that she easily hid from him, “that's +worse than getting drunk, isn't it?” + +“Well, it isn't so regarded,” said the doctor, who supposed himself to +have made a sprightly answer, and laughed at it. “I wish, Miss Bessie, +you'd take a little remedy I'm going to send you. You've merely been +up too late, but it's a very good thing for people who've been up too +late.” + +“Thank you. And about my brother?” + +“Oh! I'll send a man to look after him to-night, and tomorrow I really +think he'd better go.” + + + + +XXXVI. + +Miss Lynde had gone earlier than usual to bed, when Bessie heard Alan's +door open, and then heard him feeling his way fumbingly down-stairs. +She surmised that he had drunk up all that he had in his room, and was +making for the side-board in the dining-room. + +She ran and got the two decanters-one of whiskey and one of brandy, +which he was in the habit of carrying back to his room from such an +incursion. + +“Alan!” she called to him, in a low voice. + +“Where are you?” he answered back. + +“In the library,” she said. “Come in here, please.” + +He came, and stood looking gloomily in from the doorway. He caught sight +of the decanters and the glasses on the library table. “Oh!” he said, +and gave a laugh cut in two by a hiccough. + +“Come in, and shut the door, Alan,” she said. “Let's make a night of it. +I've got the materials here.” She waved her hand toward the decanters. + +Alan shrugged. “I don't know what you mean.” But he came forward, and +slouched into one of the deep chairs. + +“Well, I'll tell you what,” said Bessie, with a laugh. “We're both +excited, and we want to get away from ourselves. Isn't that what's the +matter with you when it begins? Doctor Lacy thinks it is.” + +“Does he?” Alan asked. “I didn't suppose he had so much sense. What of +it?” + +“Nothing. Merely that I'm going to drink a glass of whiskey and a glass +of brandy for every glass that you drink to-night.” + +“You mustn't play the fool, Bess,” said her brother, with dignified +severity. + +“But I'm really serious, Alan. Shall I give you something? Which shall +we begin on? And we'd better begin soon, for there's a man coming from +the doctor to look after you, and then you won't get anything.” + +“Don't be ridiculous! Give me those decanters!” Alan struggled out of +his chair, and trembled over to where she had them on the table beside +her. + +She caught them up, one in either hand, and held them as high as she +could lift them. “If you don't sit down and promise to keep still, I'll +smash them both on the hearth. You know I will.” + +Her strange eyes gleamed, and he hesitated; then he went back to his +chair. + +“I don't see what's got into you to-night. I don't want anything,” he +said. He tried to brave it out, but presently he cast a piteous glance +at the decanters where she had put them down beside her again. “Does the +doctor think I'd better go again?” he asked. + +“Yes.” + +“When?” + +“To-morrow.” + +He looked at the decanters. “And when is that fellow coming?” + +“He may be here any moment.” + +“It's pretty rough,” he sighed. “Two glasses of that stuff would drive +you so wild you wouldn't know where you were, Bess,” he expostulated. + +“Well, I wish I didn't know where I was. I wish I wasn't anywhere.” He +looked at her, and then dropped his eyes, with the effect of giving up a +hopeless conundrum. + +But he asked: “What's the matter?” + +She scanned him keenly before she answered: “Something that I should +like to tell you--that you ought to know. Alan, do you think you are fit +to judge of a very serious matter?” + +He laughed pathetically. “I don't believe I'm in a very judicial frame +of mind to-night, Bess. To-morrow--” + +“Oh, to-morrow! Where will you be to-morrow?” + +“That's true! Well, what is it? I'll try to listen. But if you knew +how my nerves were going.” His eyes wandered from hers back to the +decanters. “If I had just one glass--” + +“I'll have one, too,” she said, with a motion toward the decanter next +her. + +He threw up his arms. “Oh well, go on. I'll listen as well as I can.” + He sank down in his chair and stretched his little feet out toward the +fire. “Go on!” + +She hesitated before she began. “Do you know who brought you home last +night, Alan?” + +“Yes,” he answered, quickly, “Westover.” + +“Yes, Mr. Westover brought you, and you wouldn't stay. You don't +remember anything else?” + +“No. What else?” + +“Nothing for you, if you don't remember.” She sat in silent hopelessness +for a while, and her brother's eyes dwelt on the decanters, which she +seemed to have forgotten. “Alan!” she broke out, abruptly, “I'm worried, +and if I can't tell you about it there's no one I can.” + +The appeal in her voice must have reached him, though he seemed scarcely +to have heeded her words. “What is it?” he asked, kindly. + +“You went back to the Enderbys' after Mr. Westover brought you home, and +then some one else had to bring you again.” + +“How do you know?” + +“I was up, and let you in--” + +“Did you, Bessie? That was like you,” he said, tenderly. + +“And I had to let him in, too. You pulled him into the house, and you +made such a disturbance at the door that he had to come in for fear you +would bring the police.” + +“What a beast!” said Alan, of himself, as if it were some one else. + +“He came in with you. And you wanted him to have some supper. And you +fell asleep before the fire in the reception-room.” + +“That--that was the dream!” said Alan, severely. “What are you talking +that stuff for, Bessie?” + +“Oh no!” she retorted, with a laugh, as if the pleasure of its coming +in so fitly were compensation for the shame of the fact. “The dream was +what happened afterward. The dream was that you fell asleep there, and +left me there with him--” + +“Well, poor old Westover; he's a gentleman! You needn't be worried about +him--” + +“You're not fit!” cried the girl. “I give it up.” She got upon her feet +and stood a moment listless. + +“No, I'm not, Bessie. I can't pull my mind together tonight. But +look here!” He seemed to lose what he wanted to say. He asked: “Is it +something I've got you in for? Do I understand that?” + +“Partly,” she said. + +“Well, then, I'll help you out. You can trust me, Bessie; you can, +indeed. You don't believe it?” + +“Oh, I believe you think I can trust you.” + +“But this time you can. If you need my help I will stand by you, right +or wrong. If you want to tell me now I'll listen, and I'll advise you +the best I can--” + +“It's just something I've got nervous about,” she said, while her eyes +shone with sudden tears. “But I won't trouble you with it to-night. +There's no such great hurry. We can talk about it in the morning if +you're better then. Oh, I forgot! You're going away!” + +“No,” said the young man, with pathetic dignity, “I'm not going if you +need my help. But you're right about me tonight, Bessie. I'm not fit. +I'm afraid I can't grasp anything to-night. Tell me in the morning. Oh, +don't be afraid!” he cried out at the glance she gave the decanters. +“That's over, now; you could put them in my hands and be safe enough. +I'm going back to bed, and in the morning--” + +He rose and went toward the door. “If that doctor's man comes to-night +you can send him away again. He needn't bother.” + +“All right, Alan,” she said, fondly. “Good-night. Don't worry about me. +Try to get some sleep.” + +“And you must sleep, too. You can trust me, Bessie.” + +He came back after he got out of the room and looked in. “Bess, if +you're anxious about it, if you don't feel perfectly sure of me, you +can take those things to your room with you.” He indicated the decanters +with a glance. + +“Oh no! I shall leave them here. It wouldn't be any use your just +keeping well overnight. You'll have to keep well a long time, Alan, if +you're going to help me. And that's the reason I'd rather talk to you +when you can give your whole mind to what I say.” + +“Is it something so serious?” + +“I don't know. That's for you to judge. Not very--not at all, perhaps.” + +“Then I won't fail you, Bessie. I shall 'keep well,' as you call it, as +long as you want me. Good-night.” + +“Good-night. I shall leave these bottles here, remember.” + +“You needn't be afraid. You might put them beside my bed.” + +Bessie slept soundly, from exhaustion, and in that provisional fashion +in which people who have postponed a care to a given moment are able to +sleep. But she woke early, and crept down-stairs before any one else was +astir, and went to the library. The decanters stood there on the table, +empty. Her brother lay a shapeless heap in one of the deep arm-chairs. + + + + +XXXVII. + +Westover got home from the Enderby dance at last with the forecast of a +violent cold in his system, which verified itself the next morning. He +had been housed a week, when Jeff Durgin came to see him. “Why didn't +you let me know you were sick?” he demanded, “I'd have come and looked +after you.” + +“Thank you,” said Westover, with as much stiffness as he could command +in his physical limpness. “I shouldn't have allowed you to look after +me; and I want you to understand, now, that there can't be any sort of +friendliness between us till you've accounted for your behavior with +Lynde the other night.” + +“You mean at the party?” Jeff asked, tranquilly. + +“Yes!” cried Westover. “If I had not been shut up ever since, I should +have gone to see you and had it out with you. I've only let you in, now, +to give you the chance to explain; and I refuse to hear a word from you +till you do.” Westover did not think that this was very forcible, and he +was not much surprised that it made Jeff smile. + +“Why, I don't know what there is to explain. I suppose you think I got +him drunk; I know what you thought that night. But he was pretty well +loaded when he struck my champagne. It wasn't a question of what he was +going to do any longer, but how he was going to do it. I kept an eye on +him, and at the right time I helped the caterer's man to get him up into +that room where he wouldn't make any trouble. I expected to go back and +look after him, but I forgot him.” + +“I don't suppose, really, that you're aware what a devil's argument that +is,” said Westover. “You got Lynde drunk, and then you went back to his +sister, and allowed her to treat you as if you were a gentleman, +and didn't deserve to be thrown out of the house.” This at last was +something like what Westover had imagined he would say to Jeff, and he +looked to see it have the imagined effect upon him. + +“Do you suppose,” asked Jeff, with cheerful cynicism, “that it was the +first time she was civil to a man her brother got drunk with?” + +“No! But all the more you ought to have considered her helplessness. +It ought to have made her the more sacred”--Jeff gave an exasperating +shrug--“to you, and you ought to have kept away from her for decency's +sake.” + +“I was engaged to dance with her.” + +“I can't allow you to be trivial with me, Durgin,” said Westover. +“You've acted like a blackguard, and worse, if there is anything worse.” + +Jeff stood at a corner of the fire, leaning one elbow on the mantel, and +he now looked thoughtfully down on Westover, who had sunk weakly into a +chair before the hearth. “I don't deny it from your point of view, +Mr. Westover,” he said, without the least resentment in his tone. “You +believe that everything is done from a purpose, or that a thing is +intended because it's done. But I see that most things in this world are +not thought about, and not intended. They happen, just as much as the +other things that we call accidents.” + +“Yes,” said Westover, “but the wrong things don't happen from people who +are in the habit of meaning the right ones.” + +“I believe they do, fully half the time,” Jeff returned; “and, as far as +the grand result is concerned, you might as well think them and intend +them as not. I don't mean that you ought to do it; that's another thing, +and if I had tried to get Lynde drunk, and then gone to dance with his +sister, I should have been what you say I am. But I saw him getting +worse without meaning to make him so; and I went back to her because--I +wanted to.” + +“And you think, I suppose,” said Westover, “that she wouldn't have cared +any more than you cared if she had known what you did.” + +“I can't say anything about that.” + +The painter continued, bitterly: “You used to come in here, the first +year, with notions of society women that would have disgraced a Goth, +or a gorilla. Did you form your estimate of Miss Lynde from those +premises?” + +“I'm not a boy now,” Jeff answered, “and I haven't stayed all the kinds +of a fool I was.” + +“Then you don't think Miss Lynde would speak to you, or look at you, +after she knew what you had done?” + +“I should like to tell her and see,” said Jeff, with a hardy laugh. +“But I guess I sha'n't have the chance. I've never been a favorite in +society, and I don't expect to meet her again.” + +“Perhaps you'd like to have me tell her?” + +“Why, yes, I believe I should, if you could tell me what she +thought--not what she said about it.” + +“You are a brute,” answered Westover, with a puzzled air. What puzzled +him most and pleased him least was the fellow's patience under his +severity, which he seemed either not to feel or not to mind. It was of +a piece with the behavior of the rascally boy whom he had cuffed for +frightening Cynthia and her little brother long ago, and he wondered +what final malevolence it portended. + +Jeff said, as if their controversy were at an end and they might now +turn to more personal things: “You look pretty slim, Mr. Westover. A'n't +there something I can do for you-get you? I've come in with a message +from mother. She says if you ever want to get that winter view of Lion's +Head, now's your time. She wants you to come up there; she and Cynthia +both do. They can make you as comfortable as you please, and they'd like +to have a visit from you. Can't you go?” + +Westover shook his head ruefully. “It's good of them, and I want you to +thank them for me. But I don't know when I'm going to get out again.” + +“Oh, you'll soon get out,” said Jeff. “I'm going to look after you a +little,” and this time Westover was too weak to protest. He did not +forbid Jeff's taking off his overcoat; he suffered him to light his +spirit-lamp and make a punch of the whiskey which he owned the doctor +was giving him; and when Jeff handed him the steaming glass, and asked +him, “How's that?” he answered, with a pleasure in it which he knew to +be deplorable, “It's fine.” + +Jeff stayed the whole evening with him, and made him more comfortable +than he had been since his cold began. Westover now talked seriously and +frankly with him, but no longer so harshly, and in his relenting he felt +a return of his old illogical liking for him. He fancied in Durgin's +kindness to himself an indirect regret, and a desire to atone for what +he had done, and he said: “The effect is in you--the worst effect. I +don't think either of the young Lyndes very exemplary people. But you'd +be doing yourself a greater wrong than you've done then if you didn't +recognize that you had been guilty toward them.” + +Jeff seemed struck by this notion. “What do you want me to do? What can +I do? Chase myself out of society? Something like that? I'm willing. +It's too easy, though. As I said, I've never been wanted much, there, +and I shouldn't be missed.” + +“Well, then, how would you like to leave it to the people at Lion's Head +to say what you should do?” Westover suggested. + +“I shouldn't like it,” said Jeff, promptly. “They'd judge it as you +do--as if they'd done it themselves. That's the reason women are not fit +to judge.” His gay face darkened. “But tell 'em if you want to.” + +“Bah!” cried the painter. “Why should I want to I'm not a woman in +everything.” + +“I beg your pardon, Mr. Westover. I didn't mean that. I only meant that +you're an idealist. I look at this thing as if some one else had done +it; I believe that's the practical way; and I shouldn't go in for +punishing any one else for such a thing very severely.” He made another +punch--for himself this time, he said; but Westover joined him in a +glass of it. + +“It won't do to take that view of your faults, Jeff,” he said, gravely. + +“What's the reason?” Jeff demanded; and now either the punch had begun +to work in Westover's brain, or some other influence of like force +and quality. He perceived that in this earth-bound temperament was the +potentiality of all the success it aimed at. The acceptance of the moral +fact as it was, without the unconscious effort to better it, or to hold +himself strictly to account for it, was the secret of the power in the +man which would bring about the material results he desired; and this +simplicity of the motive involved had its charm. + +Westover was aware of liking Durgin at that moment much more than he +ought, and of liking him helplessly. In the light of his good-natured +selfishness, the injury to the Lyndes showed much less a sacrilege than +it had seemed; Westover began to see it with Jeff's eyes, and to see it +with reference to what might be low and mean in them, instead of what +might be fine and high. + +He was sensible of the growth Jeff had made intellectually. He had not +been at Harvard nearly four years for nothing. He had phrases and could +handle them. In whatever obscure or perverse fashion, he had profited by +his opportunities. The fellow who could accuse him of being an idealist, +and could in some sort prove it, was no longer a naughty boy to be +tutored and punished. The revolt latent in him would be violent in +proportion to the pressure put upon him, and Westover began to be +without the wish to press his fault home to him so strongly. In the +optimism generated by the punch, he felt that he might leave the case to +Jeff himself; or else in the comfort we all experience in sinking to a +lower level, he was unwilling to make the effort to keep his own moral +elevation. But he did make an effort to save himself by saying: “You +can't get what you've done before yourself as you can the action of some +one else. It's part of you, and you have to judge the motive as well as +the effect.” + +“Well, that's what I'm doing,” said Jeff; “but it seems to me that +you're trying to have me judge of the effect from a motive I didn't +have. As far as I can make out, I hadn't any motive at all.” + +He laughed, and all that Westover could say was, “Then you're still +responsible for the result.” But this no longer appeared so true to him. + + + + +XXXVIII. + +It was not a condition of Westover's welcome at Lion's Head that he +should seem peculiarly the friend of Jeff Durgin, but he could not help +making it so, and he began to overact the part as soon as he met Jeff's +mother. He had to speak of him in thanking her for remembering his wish +to paint Lion's Head in the winter, and he had to tell her of Jeff's +thoughtfulness during the past fortnight; he had to say that he did not +believe he should ever have got away if it had not been for him. This +was true; Durgin had even come in from Cambridge to see him off on the +train; he behaved as if the incident with Lynde and all their talk about +it had cemented the friendship between Westover and himself, and he +could not be too devoted. It now came out that he had written home all +about Westover, and made his mother put up a stove in the painter's old +room, so that he should have the instant use of it when he arrived. + +It was an air-tight wood-stove, and it filled the chamber with a heat in +which Westover drowsed as soon as he entered it. He threw himself on the +bed, and slept away the fatigue of his railroad journey and the cold of +his drive with Jombateeste from the station. His nap was long, and he +woke from it in a pleasant languor, with the dream-clouds still hanging +in his brain. He opened the damper of his stove, and set it roaring +again; then he pulled down the upper sash of his window and looked +out on a world whose elements of wood and snow and stone he tried to +co-ordinate. There was nothing else in that world but these things, so +repellent of one another. He suffered from the incongruity of the wooden +bulk of the hotel, with the white drifts deep about it, and with the +granite cliffs of Lion's Head before it, where the gray crags darkened +under the pink afternoon light which was beginning to play upon its +crest from the early sunset. The wind that had seemed to bore through +his thick cap and his skull itself, and that had tossed the dry snow +like dust against his eyes on his way from the railroad, had now fallen, +and an incomparable quiet wrapped the solitude of the hills. A +teasing sense of the impossibility of the scene, as far as his art was +concerned, filled him full of a fond despair of rendering its feeling. +He could give its light and color and form in a sufficiently vivid +suggestion of the fact, but he could not make that pink flush seem +to exhale, like a long breath, upon those rugged shapes; he could not +impart that sentiment of delicately, almost of elegance, which he +found in the wilderness, while every detail of civilization physically +distressed him. In one place the snow had been dug down to the pine +planking of the pathway round the house; and the contact of this +woodenness with the frozen ground pierced his nerves and set his teeth +on edge like a harsh noise. When once he saw it he had to make an effort +to take his eyes from it, and in a sort unknown to him in summer he +perceived the offence of the hotel itself amid the pure and lonely +beauty of the winter landscape. It was a note of intolerable banality, +of philistine pretence and vulgar convention, such as Whitwell's low, +unpainted cottage at the foot of the hill did not give, nor the little +red school-house, on the other hand, showing through the naked trees. +There should have been really no human habitation visible except a +wigwam in the shelter of the pines, here and there; and when he saw +Whitwell making his way up the hill-side road, Westover felt that if +there must be any human presence it should be some savage clad in skins, +instead of the philosopher in his rubber boots and his clothing-store +ulster. He preferred the small, wiry shape of Jombateeste, in his blue +woollen cap and his Canadian footgear, as he ran round the corner of the +house toward the barn, and left the breath of his pipe in the fine air +behind him. + +The light began to deepen from the pale pink to a crimson which stained +the tops and steeps of snow, and deepened the dark of the woods massed +on the mountain slopes between the irregular fields of white. The +burnished brown of the hard-wood trees, the dull carbon shadows of the +evergreens, seemed to wither to one black as the red strengthened in the +sky. Westover realized that he had lost the best of any possible picture +in letting that first delicate color escape him. This crimson was harsh +and vulgar in comparison; it would have almost a chromo quality; he +censured his pleasure in it as something gross and material, like that +of eating; and on a sudden he felt hungry. He wondered what time they +would give him supper, and he took slight account of the fact that a +caprice of the wind had torn its hood of snow from the mountain summit, +and that the profile of the Lion's Head showed almost as distinctly as +in summer. He stood before the picture which for that day at least +was lost to him, and questioned whether there would be a hearty meal, +something like a dinner, or whether there would be something like a +farmhouse supper, mainly of doughnuts and tea. + +He pulled up his window and was going to lie down again, when some one +knocked, and Frank Whitwell stood at the door. “Do you want we should +bring your supper to you here, Mr. Westover, or will you--” + +“Oh, let me join you all!” cried the painter, eagerly. “Is it +ready--shall I come now?” + +“Well, in about five minutes or so.” Frank went away, after setting +down in the room the lamp he had brought. It was a lamp which Westover +thought he remembered from the farm-house period, and on his way down he +realized as he had somehow not done in his summer sojourns, the entirety +of the old house in the hotel which had encompassed it. The primitive +cold of its stairways and passages struck upon him as soon as he left +his own room, and he found the parlor door closed against the chill. +There was a hot stove-fire within, and a kerosene-lamp turned low, but +there was no one there, and he had the photograph of his first picture +of Lion's Head to himself in the dim light. The voices of Mrs. Durgin +and Cynthia came to him from the dining-room, and from the kitchen +beyond, with the occasional clash of crockery, and the clang of iron +upon iron about the stove, and the quick tread of women's feet upon the +bare floor. With these pleasant noises came the smell of cooking, and +later there was an opening and shutting of doors, with a thrill of the +freezing air from without, and the dull thumping of Whitwell's rubber +boots, and the quicker flapping of Jombateeste's soft leathern soles. +Then there was the sweep of skirted feet at the parlor door, and Cynthia +Whitwell came in without perceiving him. She went to the table by the +darkening window, and quickly turned up the light of the lamp. In her +ignorance of his presence, he saw her as if she had been alone, almost +as if she were out of the body; he received from her unconsciousness +the impression of something rarely pure and fine, and he had a sudden +compassion for her, as for something precious that is fated to be wasted +or misprized. At a little movement which he made to relieve himself from +a sense of eavesdropping, she gave a start, and shut her lips upon the +little cry that would have escaped from another sort of woman. + +“I didn't know you were here,” she said; and she flushed with the +shyness of him which she always showed at first. She had met him already +with the rest, but they had scarcely spoken together; and he knew of the +struggle she must now be making with herself when she went on: “I didn't +know you had been called. I thought you were still sleeping.” + +“Yes. I seemed to sleep for centuries,” said West over, “and I woke up +feeling coeval with Lion's Head. But I hope to grow younger again.” + +She faltered, and then she asked: “Did you see the light on it when the +sun went down?” + +“I wish I hadn't. I could never get that light--even if it ever came +again.” + +“It's there every afternoon, when it's clear.” + +“I'm sorry for that; I shall have to try for it, then.” + +“Wasn't that what you came for?” she asked, by one of the efforts she +was making with everything she said. He could have believed he saw the +pulse throbbing in her neck. But she held herself stone-still, and he +divined her resolution to conquer herself, if she should die for it. + +“Yes, I came for that,” said Westover. “That's what makes it so +dismaying. If I had only happened on it, I shouldn't have been +responsible for the failure I shall make of it.” + +She smiled, as if she liked his lightness, but doubted if she ought. “We +don't often get Lion's Head clear of snow.” + +“Yes; that's another hardship,” said the painter. “Everything is against +me! If we don't have a snow overnight, and a cloudy day to-morrow, I +shall be in despair.” + +She played with the little wheel of the wick; she looked down, and then, +with a glance flashed at him, she gasped: “I shall have to take your +lamp for the table tea is ready.” + +“Oh, well, if you will only take me with it. I'm frightfully hungry.” + +Apparently she could not say anything to that. He tried to get the lamp +to carry it out for her, but she would not let him. “It isn't heavy,” + she said, and hurried out before him. + +It was all nothing, but it was all very charming, and Westover was +richly content with it; and yet not content, for he felt that the +pleasure of it was not truly his, but was a moment of merely borrowed +happiness. + +The table was laid in the old farm-house sitting-room where he had been +served alone when he first came to Lion's Head. But now he sat down with +the whole family, even to Jombateeste, who brought in a faint odor of +the barn with him. + +They had each been in contact with the finer world which revisits +nature in the summer-time, and they must all have known something of its +usages, but they had reverted in form and substance to the rustic living +of their neighbors. They had steak for Westover, and baked potatoes; but +for themselves they had such farm fare as Mrs. Durgin had given him the +first time he supped there. They made their meal chiefly of doughnuts +and tea, and hot biscuit, with some sweet dishes of a festive sort added +in recognition of his presence; and there was mince-pie for all. Mrs. +Durgin and Whitwell ate with their knives, and Jombateeste filled +himself so soon with every implement at hand that he was able to ask +excuse of the others if he left them for the horses before they had +half finished. Frank Whitwell fed with a kind of official or functional +conformity to the ways of summer folks; but Cynthia, at whom Westover +glanced with anxiety, only drank some tea and ate a little bread and +butter. He was ashamed of his anxiety, for he had owned that it ought +not to have mattered if she had used her knife like her father; and it +seemed to him as if he had prompted Mrs. Durgin by his curious glance +to say: “We don't know half the time how the child lives. Cynthy! Take +something to eat!” + +Cynthia pleaded that she was not hungry; Mrs. Durgin declared that she +would die if she kept on as she was going; and then the girl escaped +to the kitchen on one of the errands which she made from time to time +between the stove and the table. + +“I presume it's your coming, Mr. Westover,” Mrs. Durgin went on, with +the comfortable superiority of elderly people to all the trials of the +young. “I don't know why she should make a stranger of you, every time. +You've known her pretty much all her life.” + +“Ever since you give Jeff what he deserved for scaring her and Frank +with his dog,” said Whitwell. + +“Poor Fox!” Mrs. Durgin sighed. “He did have the least sense for a dog I +ever saw. And Jeff used to be so fond of him! Well, I guess he got tired +of him, too, toward the last.” + +“He's gone to the happy hunting-grounds now. Colorady didn't agree +with him-or old age,” said Whitwell. “I don't see why the Injuns wa'n't +right,” he pursued, thoughtfully. “If they've got souls, why ha'n't +their dogs? I suppose Mr. Westover here would say there wa'n't any +certainty about the Injuns themselves!” + +“You know my weak point, Mr. Whitwell,” the painter confessed. “But I +can't prove they haven't.” + +“Nor dogs, neither, I guess,” said Whitwell, tolerantly. “It's +curious, though, if animals have got souls, that we ha'n't ever had any +communications from 'em. You might say that ag'in' the idea.” + +“No, I'll let you say it,” returned Westover. “But a good many of the +communications seem to come from the lower intelligences, if not the +lower animals.” + +Whitwell laughed out his delight in the thrust. “Well, I guess that's +something so. And them old Egyptian devils, over there, that you say +discovered the doctrine of immortality, seemed to think a cat was about +as good as a man. What's that,” he appealed to Mrs. Durgin, “Jackson +said in his last letter about their cat mummies?” + +“Well, I guess I'll finish my supper first,” said Mrs. Durgin, whose +nerves Westover would not otherwise have suspected of faintness. +“But Jackson's letters,” she continued, loyally, “are about the best +letters!” + +“Know they'd got some of 'em in the papers?” Whitwell asked; and at the +surprise that Westover showed he told him how a fellow who was trying to +make a paper go over at the Huddle, had heard of Jackson's letters and +teased for some of them, and had printed them as neighborhood news in +that side of his paper which he did not buy ready printed in Boston. + +Mrs. Durgin studied with modest deprecation the effect of the fact +upon Westover, and seemed satisfied with it. “Well, of course, it's +interestin' to Jackson's old friends in the country, here. They know +he'd look at things, over there, pretty much as they would. Well, I had +to lend the letters round so much, anyway, it was a kind of a relief to +have 'em in the paper, where everybody could see 'em, and be done with +it. Mr. Whit'ell here, he fixes 'em up so's to leave out the family +part, and I guess they're pretty well thought of.” + +Westover said he had no doubt they were, and he should want to see all +the letters they could show him, in print and out of print. + +“If Jackson only had Jeff's health and opportunities--” the mother +began, with a suppressed passion in her regret. + +Frank Whitwell pushed back his chair. “I guess I'll ask to be excused,” + he said to the head of table. + +“There! I a'n't goin' to say any more about that, if that's what you're +afraid of, Frank,” said Mrs. Durgin. “Well, I presume I do talk a good +deal about Jackson when I get goin', and I presume it's natural Cynthy +shouldn't want I should talk about Jeff before folks. Frank, a'n't you +goin' to wait for that plate of hot biscuit?--if she ever gits it here!” + +“I guess I don't care for anything more,” said Frank, and he got himself +out of the room more inarticulately than he need, Westover thought. + +His, father followed his retreat with an eye of humorous intelligence. +“I guess Frank don't want to keep the young ladies waitin' a great +while. There's a church sociable over 't the Huddle,” he explained to +Westover. + +“Oh, that's it, is it?” Mrs. Durgin put in. “Why didn't he say so.” + +“Well, the young folks don't any of 'em seem to want to talk about +such things nowadays, and I don't know as they ever did.” Whitwell took +Westover into his confidence with a wink. + +The biscuit that Cynthia brought in were burned a little on top, and +Mrs. Durgin recognized the fact with the question, “Did you get to +studyin', out there? Take one, do, Mr. Westover! You ha'n't made half a +meal! If I didn't keep round after her, I don't know what would become +of us all. The young ladies down at Boston, any of 'em, try to keep up +with the fellows in college?” + +“I suppose they do in the Harvard Annex,” said Westover, simply, in +spite of the glance with which Mrs. Durgin tried to convey a +covert meaning. He understood it afterward, but for the present his +single-mindedness spared the girl. + +She remained to clear away the table, when the rest left it, and +Westover followed Mrs. Durgin into the parlor, where she indemnified +herself for refraining from any explicit allusion to Jeff before +Cynthia. “The boy,” she explained, when she had made him ransack his +memory for every scrap of fact concerning her son, “don't hardly ever +write to me, and I guess he don't give Cynthy very much news. I presume +he's workin' harder than ever this year. And I'm glad he's goin' about a +little, from what you say. I guess he's got to feelin' a little better. +It did worry me for him to feel so what you may call meechin' about +folks. You see anything that made you think he wa'n't appreciated?” + +After Westover got back into his own room, some one knocked at his door, +and he found Whitwell outside. He scarcely asked him to come in, but +Whitwell scarcely needed the invitation. “Got everything you want? I +told Cynthy I'd come up and see after you; Frank won't be back in time.” + He sat down and put his feet on top of the stove, and struck the heels +of his boots on its edge, from the habit of knocking the caked snow off +them in that way on stove-tops. He did not wait to find out that there +was no responsive sizzling before he asked, with a long nasal sigh, +“Well, how is Jeff gettin' along?” + +He looked across at Westover, who had provisionally seated himself on +his bed. + +“Why, in the old way.” Whitwell kept his eye on him, and he added: “I +suppose we don't any of us change; we develop.” + +Whitwell smiled with pleasure in the loosely philosophic suggestion. +“You mean that he's the same kind of a man that he was a boy? Well, I +guess that's so. The question is, what kind of a boy was he? I've been +mullin' over that consid'able since Cynthy and him fixed it up together. +Of course, I know it's their business, and all that; but I presume I've +got a right to spee'late about it?” + +He referred the point to Westover, who knew an inner earnestness in it, +in spite of Whitwell's habit of outside jocosity. “Every right in the +world, I should say, Mr. Whitwell,” he answered, seriously. + +“Well, I'm glad you feel that way,” said Whitwell, with a little +apparent surprise. “I don't want to meddle, any; but I know what Cynthy +is--I no need to brag her up--and I don't feel so over and above certain +'t I know what he is. He's a good deal of a mixture, if you want to know +how he strikes me. I don't mean I don't like him; I do; the fellow's +got a way with him that makes me kind of like him when I see him. He's +good-natured and clever; and he's willin' to take any amount of trouble +for you; but you can't tell where to have him.” Westover denied the +appeal for explicit assent in Whitwell's eye, and he went on: “If I'd +done that fellow a good turn, in spite of him, or if I'd held him up to +something that he allowed was right, and consented to, I should want to +keep a sharp lookout that he didn't play me some ugly trick for it. He's +a comical devil,” Whitwell ended, rather inadequately. “How d's it look +to you? Seen anything lately that seemed to tally with my idee?” + +“No, no; I can't say that I have,” said Westover, reluctantly. He wished +to be franker than he now meant to be, but he consulted a scruple +that he did not wholly respect; a mere convention it seemed to him, +presently. He said: “I've always felt that charm in him, too, and I've +seen the other traits, though not so clearly as you seem to have done. +He has a powerful will, yes--” + +He stopped, and Whitwell asked: “Been up to any deviltry lately?” + +“I can't say he has. Nothing that I can call intentional.” + +“No,” said Whitwell. “What's he done, though?” + +“Really, Mr. Whitwell, I don't know that you have any right to expect me +to talk him over, when I'm here as his mother's guest--his own guest--?” + +“No. I ha'n't,” said Whitwell. “What about the father of the girl he's +goin' to marry?” + +Westover could not deny the force of this. “You'd be anxious if I didn't +tell you what I had in mind, I dare say, more than if I did.” He told +him of Jeff's behavior with Alan Lynde, and of his talk with him about +it. “And I think he was honest. It was something that happened, that +wasn't meant.” + +Whitwell did not assent directly, somewhat to Westover's surprise. He +asked: “Fellow ever done anything to Jeff?” + +“Not that I know of. I don't know that they ever met before.” + +Whitwell kicked his heels on the edge of the stove again. “Then it might +been an accident,” he said, dryly. + +Westover had to break the silence that followed, and he found himself +defending Jeff, though somehow not for Jeff's sake. He urged that if he +had the strong will they both recognized in him, he would never commit +the errors of a weak man, which were usually the basest. + +“How do you know that a strong-willed man a'n't a weak one?” Whitwell +astonished him by asking. “A'n't what we call a strong will just a kind +of a bull-dog clinch that the dog himself can't unloose? I take it a man +that has a good will is a strong man. If Jeff done a right thing against +his will, he wouldn't rest easy till he'd showed that he wa'n't obliged +to, by some mischief worse 'n what he was kept out of. I tell you, Mr. +Westover, if I'd made that fellow toe the mark any way, I'd be afraid of +him.” Whitwell looked at Westover with eyes of significance, if not of +confidence. Then he rose with a prolonged “M--wel-l-l! We're all born, +but we a'n't all buried. This world is a queer place. But I guess Jeff +'ll come out right in the end.” + +Westover said, “I'm sure he will!” and he shook hands warmly with the +father of the girl Jeff was going to marry. + +Whitwell came back, after he had got some paces away, and said: “Of +course, this is between you and me, Mr. Westover.” + +“Of course!” + +“I don't mean Mis' Durgin. I shouldn't care what she thought of my +talkin' him over with you. I don't know,” he continued, putting up his +hand against the door-frame, to give himself the comfort of its support +while he talked, “as you understood what she mean by the young ladies +at Boston keepin' up with the fellows in college. Well, that's what +Cynthy's doin' with Jeff, right along; and if he ever works off them +conditions of his, and gits his degree, it' ll be because she helped him +to. I tell you, there's more than one kind of telepathy in this world, +Mr. Westover. That's all.” + + + + +XXXIX + +Westover understood from Whitwell's afterthought that it was Cynthia he +was anxious to keep ignorant of his misgivings, if they were so much as +misgivings. But the importance of this fact could not stay him against +the tide of sleep which was bearing him down. When his head touched +the pillow it swept over him, and he rose from it in the morning with a +gayety of heart which he knew to be returning health. He jumped out of +bed, and stuffed some shavings into his stove from the wood-box beside +it, and laid some logs on them; he slid the damper open, and then lay +down again, listening to the fire that showed its red teeth through +the slats and roared and laughed to the day which sparkled on the white +world without. When he got out of bed a second time, he found the room +so hot that he had to pull down his window-sash, and he dressed in a +temperature of twenty degrees below zero without knowing that the dry +air was more than fresh. Mrs. Durgin called to him through the open door +of her parlor, as he entered the dining-room: “Cynthy will give you your +breakfast, Mr. Westover. We're all done long ago, and I'm busy in here,” + and the girl appeared with the coffee-pot and the dishes she had been +keeping hot for him at the kitchen stove. She seemed to be going to +leave him when she had put them down before him, but she faltered, and +then she asked: “Do you want I should pour your coffee for you?” + +“Oh yes! Do!” he begged, and she sat down across the table from him. +“I'm ashamed to make this trouble for you,” he added. “I didn't know it +was so late.” + +“Oh, we have the whole day for our work,” she answered, tolerantly. + +He laughed, and said: “How strange that seems! I suppose I shall get +used to it. But in town we seem never to have a whole day for a day's +work; we always have to do part of it at night, or the next morning. Do +you ever have a day here that's too large a size for its work?” + +“You can nearly always find something to do about a house,” she +returned, evasively. “But the time doesn't go the way it does in the +summer.” + +“Oh, I know how the country is in the winter,” he said. “I was brought +up in the country.” + +“I didn't know that,” she said, and she gave him a stare of surprise +before her eyes fell. + +“Yes. Out in Wisconsin. My people were emigrants, and I lived in the +woods, there, till I began to paint my way out. I began pretty early, +but I was in the woods till I was sixteen.” + +“I didn't know that,” she repeated. “I always thought that you were--” + +“Summer folks, like the rest? No, I'm all-the-year-round folks +originally. But I haven't been in the country in the winter since I was +a boy; and it's all been coming back to me, here, like some one else's +experience.” + +She did not say anything, but the interest in her eyes, which she could +not keep from his face now, prompted him to go on. + +“You can make a beginning in the West easier than you can in the East, +and some people who came to our lumber camp discovered me, and gave me a +chance to begin. I went to Milwaukee first, and they made me think I +was somebody. Then I came on to New York, and they made me think I was +nobody. I had to go to Europe to find out which I was; but after I had +been there long enough I didn't care to know. What I was trying to do +was the important thing to me; not the fellow who was trying to do it.” + +“Yes,” she said, with intelligence. + +“I met some Boston people in Italy, and I thought I should like to live +where that kind of people lived. That's the way I came to be in Boston. +It all seems very simple now, but I used to think it might look romantic +from the outside. I've had a happy life; and I'm glad it began in the +country. I shouldn't care if it ended there. I don't know why I've +bothered you with my autobiography, though. Perhaps because I thought +you knew it already.” + +She looked as if she would have said something fitting if she could have +ruled herself to it; but she said nothing at all. Her failure seemed +to abash her, and she could only ask him if he would not have some more +coffee, and then excuse herself, and leave him to finish his breakfast +alone. + +That day he tried for his picture from several points out-of-doors +before he found that his own window gave him the best. With the window +open, and the stove warm at his back, he worked there in great comfort +nearly every afternoon. The snows kept off, and the clear sunsets burned +behind the summit day after day. He painted frankly and faithfully, and +made a picture which, he said to himself, no one would believe in, with +that warm color tender upon the frozen hills. The soft suffusion of the +winter scene was improbable to him when he had it in, nature before +his eyes; when he looked at it as he got it on his canvas it was simply +impossible. + +In the forenoons he had nothing to do, for he worked at his picture only +when the conditions renewed themselves with the sinking sun. He tried to +be in the open air, and get the good of it; but his strength for walking +had failed him, and he kept mostly to the paths broken around the house. +He went a good deal to the barn with Whitwell and Jombateeste to look +after the cattle and the horses, whose subdued stamping and champing +gave him a sort of animal pleasure. The blended odors of the hay-mows +and of the creatures' breaths came to him with the faint warmth which +their bodies diffused through the cold obscurity. + +When the wide doors were rolled back, and the full day was let in, he +liked the appeal of their startled eyes, and the calls they made to one +another from their stalls, while the men spoke back to them in terms +which they seemed to have in common with them, and with the poultry +that flew down from the barn lofts to the barn floor and out into the +brilliant day, with loud clamor and affected alarm. + +In these simple experiences he could not imagine the summer life of the +place. It was nowhere more extinct than in the hollow verandas, where +the rocking-chairs swung in July and August, and where Westover's steps +in his long tramps up and down woke no echo of the absent feet. In-doors +he kept to the few stove-heated rooms where he dwelt with the family, +and sent only now and then a vague conjecture into the hotel built round +the old farm-house. He meant, before he left, to ask Mrs. Durgin to +let him go through the hotel, but he put it off from day to day, with a +physical shrinking from its cold and solitude. + +The days went by in the swiftness of monotony. His excursions to the +barn, his walks on the verandas, his work on his picture, filled up the +few hours of the light, and when the dark came he contentedly joined the +little group in Mrs. Durgin's parlor. He had brought two or three books +with him, and sometimes he read from one of them; or he talked with +Whitwell on some of the questions of life and death that engaged his +speculative mind. Jombateeste preferred the kitchen for the naps he took +after supper before his early bedtime. Frank Whitwell sat with his +books there, where Westover sometimes saw his sister helping him at his +studies. He was loyally faithful and obedient to her in all things. He +helped her with the dishes, and was not ashamed to be seen at this work; +she had charge of his goings and comings in society; he submitted to +her taste in his dress, and accepted her counsel on many points which +he referred to her, and discussed with her in low-spoken conferences. He +seemed a formal, serious boy, shy like his sister; his father let fall +some hints of a religious cast of mind in him. He had an ambition beyond +the hotel; he wished to study for the ministry; and it was not alone +the chance of going home with the girls that made him constant at the +evening meetings. “I don't know where he gits it,” said his father, +with a shake of the head that suggested doubt of the wisdom of the son's +preference of theology to planchette. + +Cynthia had the same care of her father as of her brother; she kept him +neat, and held him up from lapsing into the slovenliness to which he +would have tended if she had not, as Westover suspected, made constant +appeals to him for the respect due their guest. Mrs. Durgin, for her +part, left everything to Cynthia, with a contented acceptance of her +future rule and an abiding trust in her sense and strength, which +included the details of the light work that employed her rather +luxurious leisure. Jombateeste himself came to Cynthia with his mending, +and her needle kept him tight and firm against the winter which it +amused Westover to realize was the Canuck's native element, insomuch +that there was now something incongruous in the notion of Jombateeste +and any other season. + +The girl's motherly care of all the household did not leave Westover +out. Buttons appeared on garments long used to shifty contrivances +for getting on without them; buttonholes were restored to their proper +limits; his overcoat pockets were searched for gloves, and the gloves +put back with their finger-tips drawn close as the petals of a flower +which had decided to shut and be a bud again. + +He wondered how he could thank her for his share of the blessing that +her passion for motherly care was to all the house. It was pathetic, +and he used sometimes to forecast her self-devotion with a tender +indignation, which included a due sense of his own present demerit. He +was not reconciled to the sacrifice because it seemed the happiness, or +at least the will, of the nature which made it. All the same it seemed a +waste, in its relation to the man she was to marry. + +Mrs. Durgin and Cynthia sat by the lamp and sewed at night, or listened +to the talk of the men. If Westover read aloud, they whispered together +from time to time about some matters remote from it, as women always do +where there is reading. It was quiet, but it was not dull for Westover, +who found himself in no hurry to get back to town. + +Sometimes he thought of the town with repulsion; its unrest, its +vacuous, troubled life haunted him like a memory of sickness; but he +supposed that when he should be quite well again all that would change, +and be as it was before. He interested himself, with the sort of shrewd +ignorance of it that Cynthia showed in the questions she asked about +it now and then when they chanced to be left alone together. He +fancied that she was trying to form some intelligible image of Jeff's +environment there, and was piecing together from his talk of it the +impressions she had got from summer folks. He did his best to help her, +and to construct for her a veritable likeness of the world as far as he +knew it. + +A time came when he spoke frankly of Jeff in something they were saying, +and she showed no such shrinking as he had expected she would; he +reflected that she might have made stricter conditions with Mrs. Durgin +than she expected to keep herself in mentioning him. This might well +have been necessary with the mother's pride in her son, which knew no +stop when it once began to indulge itself. What struck Westover more +than the girl's self-possession when they talked of Jeff was a certain +austerity in her with regard to him. She seemed to hold herself tense +against any praise of him, as if she should fail him somehow if she +relaxed at all in his favor. + +This, at least, was the rather mystifying impression which Westover got +from her evident wish to criticise and understand exactly all that he +reported, rather than to flatter herself from it. Whatever her motive +was, he was aware that through it all she permitted herself a closer and +fuller trust of himself. At times it was almost too implicit; he would +have liked to deserve it better by laying open all that had been in his +heart against Jeff. But he forbore, of course, and he took refuge, as +well as he could, in the respect by which she held herself at a reverent +distance from him when he could not wholly respect himself. + + + + +XL. + +One morning Westover got leave from Mrs. Durgin to help Cynthia open +the dim rooms and cold corridors at the hotel to the sun and air. She +promised him he should take his death, but he said he would wrap up +warm, and when he came to join the girl in his overcoat and fur cap, he +found Cynthia equipped with a woollen cloud tied around her head, and a +little shawl pinned across her breast. + +“Is that all?” he reproached her. “I ought to have put on a single +wreath of artificial flowers and some sort of a blazer for this +expedition. Don't you think so, Mrs. Durgin?” + +“I believe women can stand about twice as much cold as you can, the best +of you,” she answered, grimly. + +“Then I must try to keep myself as warm as I can with work,” he said. +“You must let me do all the rough work of airing out, won't you, +Cynthia?” + +“There isn't any rough work about it,” she answered, in a sort of +motherly toleration of his mood, without losing anything of her filial +reverence. + +She took care of him, he perceived, as she took care of her brother and +her father, but with a delicate respect for his superiority, which was +no longer shyness. + +They began with the office and the parlor, where they flung up the +windows, and opened the doors, and then they opened the dining-room, +where the tables stood in long rows, with the chairs piled on them legs +upward. Cynthia went about with many sighs for the dust on everything, +though to Westover's eyes it all seemed frigidly clean. “If it goes on +as it has for the past two years,” she said, “we shall have to add on a +new dining-room. I don't know as I like to have it get so large!” + +“I never wanted it to go beyond the original farmhouse,” said Westover. +“I've been jealous of every boarder but the first. I should have liked +to keep it for myself, and let the world know Lion's Head from my +pictures.” + +“I guess Mrs. Durgin thinks it was your picture that began to send +people here.” + +“And do you blame me, too? What if the thing I'm doing now should make +it a winter resort? Nothing could save you, then, but a fire. I believe +that's Jeff's ambition. Only he would want to put another hotel in place +of this; something that would be more popular. Then the ruin I began +would be complete, and I shouldn't come any more; I couldn't bear the +sight.” + +“I guess Mrs. Durgin wouldn't think it was lion's Head if you stopped +coming,” said Cynthia. + +“But you would know better than that,” said Westover; and then he +was sorry he had said it, for it seemed to ask something of different +quality from her honest wish to make him know their regard for him. + +She did not answer, but went down a long corridor to which they had +mounted, to raise the window at the end, while he raised another at the +opposite extremity. When they met at the stairway again to climb to the +story above, he said: “I am always ashamed when I try to make a person +of sense say anything silly,” and she flushed, still without answering, +as if she understood him, and his meaning pleased her. “But fortunately +a person of sense is usually equal to the temptation. One ought to be +serious when he tries it with a person of the other sort; but I don't +know that one is!” + +“Do you feel any draught between these windows?” asked Cynthia, +abruptly. “I don't want you should take cold.” + +“Oh, I'm all right,” said Westover. + +She went into the rooms on one side of the corridor, and put up their +windows, and flung the blinds back. He did the same on the other side. +He got a peculiar effect of desolation from the mattresses pulled down +over the foot of the bedsteads, and the dismantled interiors reflected +in the mirrors of the dressing-cases; and he was going to speak of it +when he rejoined Cynthia at the stairway leading to the third story, +when she said, “Those were Mrs. Vostrand's rooms I came out of the +last.” She nodded her head over her shoulder toward the floor they were +leaving. + +“Were they indeed! And do you remember people's rooms so long?” + +“Yes; I always think of rooms by the name of people that have them, if +they're any way peculiar.” + +He thought this bit of uncandor charming, and accepted it as if it were +the whole truth. “And Mrs. Vostrand was certainly peculiar. Tell me, +Cynthia, what did you think of her?” + +“She was only here a little while.” + +“But you wouldn't have come to think of her rooms by her name if she +hadn't made a strong impression on you!” She did not answer, and he +said, “I see you didn't like her!” + +The girl would not speak, and Mr. Westover went on: “She used to be very +good to me, and I think she used to be better to herself than she +is now.” He knew that Jeff must have told Cynthia of his affair with +Genevieve Vostrand, and he kept himself from speaking of her by a +resolution he thought creditable, as he mounted the stairs to the upper +story in the silence to which Cynthia left his last remark. At the top +she made a little pause in the obscurer light of the close-shuttered +corridor, while she said: “I liked her daughter the best.” + +“Yes?” he returned. “I--never felt very well acquainted with her, I +believe. One couldn't get far with her. Though, for the matter of that, +one didn't get far with Mrs. Vostrand herself. Did you think Genevieve +was much influenced by her mother?” + +“She didn't seem a strong character.” + +“No, that was it. She was what her mother wished her to be. I've often +wondered how much she was interested in the marriage she made.” + +Cynthia let a rustic silence ensue, and Westover shrank again from the +inquisition he longed to make. + +It was not Genevieve Vostrand's marriage which really concerned him, but +Cynthia's engagement, and it was her mind that he would have liked to +look into. It might well be supposed that she regarded it in a perfect +matter-of-fact way, and with no ambition beyond it. She was a country +girl, acquainted from childhood with facts of life which town-bred girls +would not have known without a blunting of the sensibilities, and why +should she be different from other country girls? She might be as +good and as fine as he saw her, and yet be insensible to the spiritual +toughness of Jeff, because of her love for him. Her very goodness might +make his badness unimaginable to her, and if her refinement were from +the conscience merely, and not from the tastes and experiences, too, +there was not so much to dread for her in her marriage with such a man. +Still, he would have liked, if he could, to tell her what he had told +her father of Durgin's behavior with Lynde, and let her bring the test +of her self-devotion to the case with a clear understanding. He had +sometimes been afraid that Whitwell might not be able to keep it +to himself; but now he wished that the philosopher had not been so +discreet. He had all this so absorbingly in mind that he started +presently with the fear that she had said something and he had not +answered, but when he asked her he found that she had not spoken. They +were standing at an open window looking out upon Lion's Head, when he +said: “I don't know how I shall show my gratitude to Mrs. Durgin and you +for thinking of having me up here. I've done a picture of Lion's Head +that might be ever so much worse; but I shouldn't have dreamed of +getting at it if it hadn't been for you, though I've so often dreamed +of doing it. Now I shall go home richer in every sort of way-thanks to +you.” + +She answered, simply: “You needn't thank anybody; but it was Jeff who +thought of it; we were ready enough to ask you.” + +“That was very good of him,” said Westover, whom her words confirmed in +a suspicion he had had all along. But what did it matter that Jeff had +suggested their asking him, and then attributed the notion to them? It +was not so malign for him to use that means of ingratiating himself with +Westover, and of making him forget his behavior with Lynde, and it was +not unnatural. It was very characteristic; at the worst it merely proved +that Jeff was more ashamed of what he had done than he would allow, and +that was to his credit. + +He heard Cynthia asking: “Mr. Westover, have you ever been at Class Day? +He wants us to come.” + +“Class Day? Oh, Class Day!” He took a little time to gather himself +together. “Yes, I've been at a good many. If you care to see something +pretty, it's the prettiest thing in the world. The students' sisters +and mothers come from everywhere; and there's fashion and feasting +and flirting, from ten in the morning till ten at night. I'm not sure +there's so much happiness; but I can't tell. The young people know about +that. I fancy there's a good deal of defeat and disappointment in it +all. But if you like beautiful dresses, and music and dancing, and a +great flutter of gayety, you can get more of it at Class Day than +you can in any other way. The good time depends a great deal upon the +acquaintance a student has, and whether he is popular in college.” + Westover found this road a little impassable, and he faltered. + +Cynthia did not apparently notice his hesitation. “Do you think Mrs. +Durgin would like it?” + +“Mrs. Durgin?” Westover found that he had been leaving her out of the +account, and had been thinking only of Cynthia's pleasure or pain. +“Well, I don't suppose--it would be rather fatiguing--Did Jeff want her +to come too?” + +“He said so.” + +“That's very nice of him. If he could devote himself to her; but--And +would she like to go?” + +“To please him, she would.” Westover was silent, and the girl surprised +him by the appeal she suddenly made to him. “Mr. Westover, do you +believe it would be very well for either of us to go? I think it would +be better for us to leave all that part of his life alone. It's no use +in pretending that we're like the kind of people he knows, or that we +know their ways, and I don't believe--” + +Westover felt his heart rise in indignant sympathy. “There isn't any +one he knows to compare with you!” he said, and in this he was thinking +mainly of Bessie Lynde. “You're worth a thousand--If I were--if he's +half a man he would be proud--I beg your pardon! I don't mean--but you +understand--” + +Cynthia put her head far out of the window and looked along the steep +roof before them. “There is a blind off one of the windows. I heard it +clapping in the wind the other night. I must go and see the number of +the room.” She drew her head in quickly and ran away without letting him +see her face. + +He followed her. “Let me help you put it on again!” + +“No, no!” she called back. “Frank will do that, or Jombateeste, when +they come to shut up the house.” + + + + +XLI. + +Westover, did not meet Durgin for several days after his return from +Lion's Head. He brought messages for him from his mother and from +Whitwell, and he waited for him to come and get them so long that he had +to blame himself for not sending them to him. When Jeff appeared, at the +end of a week, Westover had a certain embarrassment in meeting him, and +the effort to overcome this carried him beyond his sincerity. He was +aware of feigning the cordiality he showed, and of having less real +liking for him than ever before. He suggested that he must be busier +every day, now, with his college work, and he resented the air of social +prosperity which Jeff put on in saying, Yes, there was that, and then he +had some engagements which kept him from coming in sooner. + +He did not say what the engagements were, and they did not recur to the +things they had last spoken of. Westover could not do so without Jeff's +leading, and he was rather glad that he gave none. He stayed only a +little time, which was spent mostly in a show of interest on both sides, +and the hollow hilarities which people use to mask their indifference +to one another's being and doing. Jeff declared that he had never seen +Westover looking so well, and said he must go up to Lion's Head again; +it had done him good. As for his picture, it was a corker; it made him +feel as if he were there! He asked about all the folks, and received +Westover's replies with vague laughter, and an absence in his bold eye, +which made the painter wonder what his mind was on, without the wish to +find out. He was glad to have him go, though he pressed him to drop in +soon again, and said they would take in a play together. + +Jeff said he would like to do that, and he asked at the door whether +Westover was going to the tea at Mrs. Bellingham's. He said he had to +look in there, before he went out to Cambridge; and left Westover in +mute amaze at the length he had apparently gone in a road that had once +seemed no thoroughfare for him. Jeff's social acceptance, even after the +Enderby ball, which was now some six or seven weeks past, had been slow; +but of late, for no reason that he or any one else could have given, it +had gained a sudden precipitance; and people who wondered why they met +him at other houses began to ask him to their own. + +He did not care to go to their houses, and he went at first in the hope +of seeing Bessie Lynde again. But this did not happen for some time, and +it was a mid-Lenten tea that brought them together. As soon as he caught +sight of her he went up to her and began to talk as if they had been in +the habit of meeting constantly. She could not control a little start at +his approach, and he frankly recognized it. + +“What's the matter?” + +“Oh--the window!” + +“It isn't open,” he said, trying it. “Do you want to try it yourself?” + +“I think I can trust you,” she answered, but she sank a little into the +shelter of the curtains, not to be seen talking with him, perhaps, or +not to be interrupted--she did not analyze her motive closely. + +He remained talking to her until she went away, and then he contrived +to go with her. She did not try to escape him after that; each time +they met she had the pleasure of realizing that there had never been any +danger of what never happened. But beyond this she could perhaps have +given no better reason for her willingness to meet him again and again +than the bewildered witnesses of the fact. In her set people not only +never married outside of it, but they never flirted outside of it. For +one of themselves, even for a girl like Bessie, whom they had not quite +known from childhood, to be apparently amusing herself with a man like +that, so wholly alien in origin, in tradition, was something unheard of; +and it began to look as if Bessie Lynde was more than amused. It seemed +to Mary Enderby that wherever she went she saw that man talking to +Bessie. She could have believed that it was by some evil art that he +always contrived to reach Bessie's side, if anything could have been +less like any kind of art than the bold push he made for her as soon +as he saw her in a room. But sometimes Miss Enderby feared that it was +Bessie who used such finesse as there was, and always put herself where +he could see her. She waited with trembling for her to give the affair +sanction by making her aunt ask him to something at her house. On the +other hand, she could not help feeling that Bessie's flirtation was all +the more deplorable for the want of some such legitimation. + +She did not even know certainly whether Jeff ever called upon Bessie at +her aunt's house, till one day the man let him out at the same time he +let her in. + +“Oh, come up, Molly!” Bessie sang out from the floor above, and met her +half-way down the stairs, where she kissed her and led her embraced into +the library. + +“You don't like my jay, do you, dear?” she asked, promptly. + +Mary Enderby turned her face, the mirror of conscience, upon her, and +asked: “Is he your jay?” + +“Well, no; not just in that sense, Molly. But suppose he was?” + +“Then I should have nothing to say.” + +“And suppose he wasn't?” + +Still Mary Enderby found herself with nothing of all she had a thousand +times thought she should say to Bessie if she had ever the slightest +chance. It always seemed so easy, till now, to take Bessie in her arms, +and appeal to her good sense, her self-respect, her regard for her +family and friends; and now it seemed so impossible. + +She heard herself answering, very stiffly: “Perhaps I'd better apologize +for what I've said already. You must think I was very unjust the last +time we mentioned him.” + +“Not at all!” cried Bessie, with a laugh that sounded very mocking and +very unworthy to her friend. “He's all that you said, and worse. But +he's more than you said, and better.” + +“I don't understand,” said Mary, coldly. + +“He's very interesting; he's original; he's different!” + +“Oh, every one says that.” + +“And he doesn't flatter me, or pretend to think much of me. If he did, +I couldn't bear him. You know how I am, Molly. He keeps me interested, +don't you understand, and prowling about in the great unknown where he +has his weird being.” + +Bessie put her hand to her mouth, and laughed at Mary Enderby with her +slanted eyes; a sort of Parisian version of a Chinese motive in eyes. + +“I suppose,” her friend said, sadly, “you won't tell me more than you +wish.” + +“I won't tell you more than I know--though I'd like to,” said Bessie. +She gave Mary a sudden hug. “You dear! There isn't anything of it, if +that's what you mean.” + +“But isn't there danger that there will be, Bessie?” her friend +entreated. + +“Danger? I shouldn't call it danger, exactly!” + +“But if you don't respect him, Bessie--” + +“Why, how can I? He doesn't respect me!” + +“I know you're teasing, now,” said Mary Enderby, getting up, “and you're +quite right. I have no business to--” + +Bessie pulled her down upon the seat again. “Yes, you have! Don't I tell +you, over and over? He doesn't respect me, because I don't know how to +make him, and he wouldn't like it if I did. But now I'll try to make you +understand. I don't believe I care for him the least; but mind, I'm not +certain, for I've never cared for any one, and I don't know what it's +like. You know I'm not sentimental; I think sentiment's funny; and I'm +not dignified--” + +“You're divine,” murmured Mary Enderby, with reproachful adoration. + +“Yes, but you see how my divinity could be improved,” said Bessie, with +a wild laugh. “I'm not sentimental, but I'm emotional, and he gives me +emotions. He's a riddle, and I'm all the time guessing at him. You get +the answer to the kind of men we know easily; and it's very nice, but it +doesn't amuse you so much as trying. Now, Mr. Durgin--what a name! I can +see it makes you creep--is no more like one of us than a--bear is--and +his attitude toward us is that of a bear who's gone so much with human +beings that he thinks he's a human being. He's delightful, that way. +And, do you know, he's intellectual! He actually brings me books, and +wants to read passages to me out of them! He has brought me the plans of +the new hotel he's going to build. It's to be very aesthetic, and it's +going to be called The Lion's Head Inn. There's to be a little theatre, +for amateur dramatics, which I could conduct, and for all sorts of +professional amusements. If you should ever come, Molly, I'm sure we +shall do our best to make you comfortable.” + +Mary Enderby would not let Bessie laugh upon her shoulder after she said +this. “Bessie Lynde,” she said, severely, “if you have no regard for +yourself, you ought to have some regard for him. You may say you are not +encouraging him, and you may believe it--” + +“Oh, I shouldn't say it if I didn't believe it,” Bessie broke in, with a +mock air of seriousness. + +“I must be going,” said Mary, stiffly, and this time she succeeded in +getting to her feet. + +Bessie laid hold of her again. “You think you've been trifled with, +don't you, dear?” + +“No--” + +“Yes, you do! Don't you try to be slippery, Molly. The plain pikestaff +is your style, morally speaking--if any one knows what a pikestaff is. +Well, now, listen! You're anxious about me.” + +“You know how I feel, Bessie,” said Mary Enderby, looking her in the +eyes. + +“Yes, I do,” said Bessie. “The trouble is, I don't know how I feel. But +if I ever do, Molly, I'll tell you! Is that fair?” + +“Yes.” + +“I'll give you ample warning. At the least little consciousness in the +region of the pericardium, off will go a note by a district messenger, +and when you come I'll do whatever you say. There!” + +“Oh, Bessie!” cried her friend, and she threw her arms round her, “you +always were the most fascinating creature in the world!” + +“Yes,” said Bessie, “that's what I try to have him think.” + + + + +XLII. + +Toward the end of April most people who had places at the Shore were +mostly in them, but they came up to town on frequent errands, and had +one effect of evanescence with people who still remained in their Boston +houses provisionally, and seemed more than half absent. The Enderbys +had been at the Shore for a fortnight, and the Lyndes were going to be a +fortnight longer in Boston, yet, as Bessie made her friend observe, when +Mary, ran in for lunch, or stopped for a moment on her way to the train, +every few days, they were both of the same transitory quality. + +“It might as well be I as you,” Bessie said one day, “if we only think +so. It's all very weird, dear, and I'm not sure but it is you who sit +day after day at my lonely casement and watch the sparrows examining the +fuzzy buds of the Jap ivy to see just how soon they can hope to build +in the vines. Do you object to the ivy buds looking so very much like +snipped woollen rags? If you do, I'm sure it's you, here in my place, +for when I come up to town in your personality it sets my teeth on edge. +In fact, that's the worst thing about Boston now--the fuzzy ivy buds; +there's so much ivy! When you can forget the buds, there are a great +many things to make you happy. I feel quite as if we were spending the +summer in town and I feel very adventurous and very virtuous, like +some sort of self-righteous bohemian. You don't know how I look down +on people who have gone out of town. I consider them very selfish +and heartless; I don't know why, exactly. But when we have a good +marrow-freezing northeasterly storm, and the newspapers come out with +their ironical congratulations to the tax-dodgers at the Shore, I feel +that Providence is on my side, and I'm getting my reward, even in this +world.” Bessie suddenly laughed. “I see by your expression of fixed +inattention, Molly, that you're thinking of Mr. Durgin!” + +Mary gave a start of protest, but she was too honest to deny the fact +outright, and Bessie ran on: + +“No, we don't sit on a bench in the Common, or even in the Garden, or on +the walk in Commonwealth Avenue. If we come to it later, as the season +advances, I shall make him stay quite at the other end of the bench, and +not put his hand along the top. You needn't be afraid, Molly; all the +proprieties shall be religiously observed. Perhaps I shall ask Aunt +Louisa to let us sit out on her front steps, when the evenings get +warmer; but I assure you it's much more comfortable in-doors yet, even +in town, though you'll hardly, believe it at the Shore. Shall you come +up to Class Day?” + +“Oh, I don't know,” Mary began, with a sigh of the baffled hope and the +inextinguishable expectation which the mention of Class Day stirs in the +heart of every Boston girl past twenty. + +“Yes!” said Bessie, with a sigh burlesqued from Mary's. “That is what +we all say, and it is certainly the most maddening of human festivals. +I suppose, if we were quite left to ourselves, we shouldn't go; but +we seem never to be, quite. After every Class Day I say to myself that +nothing on earth could induce me to go to another; but when it comes +round again, I find myself grasping at any straw of a pretext. I'm +pretending now that I've a tender obligation to go because it's his +Class Day.” + +“Bessie!” cried Mary Enderby. “You don't mean it!” + +“Not if I say it, Mary dear. What did I promise you about the +pericardiac symptoms? But I feel--I feel that if he asks me I must go. +Shouldn't you like to go and see a jay Class Day--be part of it? Think +of going once to the Pi Ute spread--or whatever it is! And dancing in +their tent! And being left out of the Gym, and Beck! Yes, I ought to go, +so that it can be brought home to me, and I can have a realizing sense +of what I am doing, and be stayed in my mad career.” + +“Perhaps,” Mary Enderby suggested, colorlessly, “he will be devoted +to his own people.” She had a cold fascination in the picture Bessie's +words had conjured up, and she was saying this less to Bessie than to +herself. + +“And I should meet them--his mothers and sisters!” Bessie dramatized an +excess of anguish. “Oh, Mary, that is the very thorn I have been trying +not to press my heart against; and does your hand commend it to my +embrace? His folks! Yes, they would be folks; and what folks! I think +I am getting a realizing sense. Wait! Don't speak don't move, Molly!” + Bessie dropped her chin into her hand, and stared straight forward, +gripping Mary Enderby's hand. + +Mary withdrew it. “I shall have to go, Bessie,” she said. “How is your +aunt?” + +“Must you? Then I shall always say that it was your fault that I +couldn't get a realizing sense--that you prevented me, just when I was +about to see myself as others see me--as you see me. She's very well!” + Bessie sighed in earnest, and her friend gave her hand a little pressure +of true sympathy. “But of course it's rather dull here, now.” + +“I hate to have you staying on. Couldn't you come down to us for a +week?” + +“No. We both think it's best to be here when Alan gets back. We want him +to go down with us.” Bessie had seldom spoken openly with Mary Enderby +about her brother; but that was rather from Mary's shrinking than her +own; she knew that everybody understood his case. She went so far now as +to say: “He's ever so much better than he has been. We have such hopes +of him, if he can keep well, when he gets back this time.” + +“Oh, I know he will,” said Mary, fervently. “I'm sure of it. Couldn't we +do something for you, Bessie?” + +“No, there isn't anything. But--thank you. I know you always think of +me, and that's worlds. When are you coming up again?” + +“I don't know. Next week, some time.” + +“Come in and see me--and Alan, if he should be at home. He likes you, +and he will be so glad.” + +Mary kissed Bessie for consent. “You know how much I admire Alan. He +could be anything.” + +“Yes, he could. If he could!” + +Bessie seldom put so much earnest in anything, and Mary loved (as she +would have said) the sad sincerity, the honest hopelessness of her tone. +“We must help him. I know we can.” + +“We must try. But people who could--if they could--” Bessie stopped. + +Her friend divined that she was no longer speaking wholly of her +brother, but she said: “There isn't any if about it; and there are no +ifs about anything if we only think so. It's a sin not to think so.” + +The mixture of severity and of optimism in the nature of her friend had +often amused Bessie, and it did not escape her tacit notice in even +so serious a moment as this. Her theory was that she was shocked to +recognize it now, because of its relation to her brother, but her +theories did not always agree with the facts. + +That evening, however, she was truly surprised when, after a rather +belated ring at the door, the card of Mr. Thomas Jefferson Durgin came +up to her from the reception-room. Her aunt had gone to bed, and she had +a luxurious moment in which she reaped all the reward of self-denial +by supposing herself to have foregone the pleasure of seeing him, and +sending down word that she was not at home. She did not wish, indeed, to +see him, but she wished to know how he felt warranted in calling in the +evening, and it was this unworthy, curiosity which she stifled for that +luxurious moment. The next, with undiminished dignity, she said, “Ask +him to come up, Andrew,” and she waited in the library for him to offer +a justification of the liberty he had taken. + +He offered none whatever, but behaved at once as if he had always had +the habit of calling in the evening, or as if it was a general custom +which he need not account for in his own case. He brought her a book +which they had talked of at their last meeting, but he made no excuse or +pretext of it. + +He said it was a beautiful night, and that he had found it rather warm +walking in from Cambridge. The exercise had moistened his whole rich, +red color, and fine drops of perspiration stood on his clean-shaven +upper lip and in the hollow between his under lip and his bold chin; +he pushed back the coarse, dark-yellow hair from his forehead with +his handkerchief, and let his eyes mock her from under his thick, +straw-colored eyebrows. She knew that he was enjoying his own impudence, +and he was so handsome that she could not refuse to enjoy it with him. +She asked him if he would not have a fan, and he allowed her to get it +for him from the mantel. “Will you have some tea?” + +“No; but a glass of water, if you please,” he said, and Bessie rang and +sent for some apollinaris, which Jeff drank a great goblet of when it +came. Then he lay back in the deep chair he had taken, with the air of +being ready for any little amusing thing she had to say. + +“Are you still a pessimist, Mr. Durgin?” she asked, tentatively, with +the effect of innocence that he knew meant mischief. + +“No,” he said. “I'm a reformed optimist.” + +“What is that?” + +“It's a man who can't believe all the good he would like, but likes to +believe all the good he can.” + +Bessie said it over, with burlesque thoughtfulness. “There was a +girl here to-day,” she said, solemnly, “who must have been a reformed +pessimist, then, for she said the same thing.” + +“Oh! Miss Enderby,” said Jeff. + +Bessie started. “You're preternatural! But what a pity you should be +mistaken. How came you to think of her?” + +“She doesn't like me, and you always put me on trial after she's been +here.” + +“Am I putting you on trial now? It's your guilty conscience! Why +shouldn't Mary Enderby like you?” + +“Because I'm not good enough.” + +“Oh! And what has that to do with people's liking you? If that was a +reason, how many friends do you think you would have?” + +“I'm not sure that I should have any.” + +“And doesn't that make you feel badly?” + +“Very.” Jeff's confession was a smiling one. + +“You don't show it!” + +“I don't want to grieve you.” + +“Oh, I'm not sure that would grieve me.” + +“Well, I thought I wouldn't risk it.” + +“How considerate of you!” + +They had come to a little barrier, up that way, and could go no further. +Jeff said: “I've just been interviewing another reformed pessimist.” + +“Mr. Westover?” + +“You're preternatural, too. And you're not mistaken, either. Do you ever +go to his studio?” + +“No; I haven't been there since he told me it would be of no use to come +as a student. He can be terribly frank.” + +“Nobody knows that better than I do,” said Jeff, with a smile for the +notion of Westover's frankness as he had repeatedly experienced it. “But +he means well.” + +“Oh, that's what they always say. But all the frankness can't be well +meant. Why should uncandor be the only form of malevolence?” + +“That's a good idea. I believe I'll put that up on Westover the next +time he's frank.” + +“And will you tell me what he says?” + +“Oh, I don't know about that.” Jeff lay back in his chair at large ease +and chuckled. “I should like to tell you what he's just been saying to +me, but I don't believe I can.” + +“Do!” + +“You know he was up at Lion's Head in February, and got a winter +impression of the mountain. Did you see it?” + +“No. Was that what you were talking about?” + +“We talked about something a great deal more interesting--the impression +he got of me.” + +“Winter impression.” + +“Cold enough. He had come to the conclusion that I was very selfish and +unworthy; that I used other people for my own advantage, or let them +use themselves; that I was treacherous and vindictive, and if I didn't +betray a man I couldn't be happy till I had beaten him. He said that if +I ever behaved well, it came after I had been successful one way or the +other.” + +“How perfectly fascinating!” Bessie rested her elbow on the corner +of the table, and her chin in the palm of the hand whose thin fingers +tapped her red lips; the light sleeve fell down and showed her pretty, +lean little forearm. “Did it strike you as true, at all?” + +“I could see how it might strike him as true.” + +“Now you are candid. But go on! What did he expect you to do about it?” + +“Nothing. He said he didn't suppose I could help it.” + +“This is immense,” said Bessie. “I hope I'm taking it all in. How came +he to give you this flattering little impression? So hopeful, too! Or, +perhaps your frankness doesn't go any farther?” + +“Oh, I don't mind saying. He seemed to think it was a sort of abstract +duty he owed to my people.” + +“Your-folks?” asked Bessie. + +“Yes,” said Jeff, with a certain dryness. But as her face looked blankly +innocent, he must have decided that she meant nothing offensive. He +relaxed into a broad smile. “It's a queer household up there, in the +winter. I wonder what you would think of it.” + +“You might describe it to me, and perhaps we shall see.” + +“You couldn't realize it,” said Jeff, with a finality that piqued her. +He reached out for the bottle of apollinaris, with somehow the effect of +being in another student's room, and poured himself a glass. This would +have amused her, nine times out of ten, but the tenth time had come when +she chose to resent it. + +“I suppose,” she said, “you are all very much excited about Class Day at +Cambridge.” + +“That sounds like a remark made to open the way to conversation.” Jeff +went on to burlesque a reply in the same spirit. “Oh, very much so +indeed, Miss Lynde! We are all looking forward to it so eagerly. Are you +coming?” + +She rejected his lead with a slight sigh so skilfully drawn that it +deceived him when she said, gravely: + +“I don't know. It's apt to be a very baffling time at the best. All the +men that you like are taken up with their own people, and even the men +that you don't like overvalue themselves, and think they're doing you +a favor if they give you a turn at the Gym or bring you a plate of +something.” + +“Well, they are, aren't they?” + +“I suppose, yes, that's what makes me hate it. One doesn't like to have +such men do one a favor. And then, Juniors get younger every year! Even +a nice Junior is only a Junior,” she concluded, with a sad fall of her +mocking voice. + +“I don't believe there's a Senior in Harvard that wouldn't forsake his +family and come to the rescue if your feelings could be known,” said +Jeff. He lifted the bottle at his elbow and found it empty, and this +seemed to remind him to rise. + +“Don't make them known, please,” said Bessie. “I shouldn't want an +ovation.” She sat, after he had risen, as if she wished to detain him, +but when he came up to take leave she had to put her hand in his. She +looked at it there, and so did he; it seemed very little and slim, about +one-third the size of his palm, and it seemed to go to nothing in his +grasp. “I should think,” she added, “that the jays would have the best +time on Class Day. I should like to dance at one of their spreads, and +do everything they did. It would be twice the fun, and there would be +some nature in it. I should like to see a jay Class Day.” + +“If you'll come out, I'll show you one,” said Jeff, without wincing. + +“Oh, will you?” she said, taking away her hand. “That would be +delightful. But what would become of your folks?” She caught a corner of +her mouth with her teeth, as if the word had slipped out. + +“Do you call them folks?” asked Jeff, quietly: + +“I--supposed--Don't you?” + +“Not in Boston. I do at Lion's Head.” + +“Oh! Well-people.” + +“I don't know as they're coming.” + +“How delightful! I don't mean that; but if they're not, and if you +really knew some jays, and could get me a little glimpse of their Class +Day--” + +“I think I could manage it for you.” He spoke as before, but he looked +at her with a mockery in his lips and eyes as intelligent as her own, +and the latent change in his mood gave her the sense of being in the +presence of a vivid emotion. She rose in her excitement; she could +see that he admired her, and was enjoying her insolence too, in a way, +though in a way that she did not think she quite understood; and she had +the wish to make him admire her a little more. + +She let a light of laughter come into her eyes, of harmless mischief +played to an end. “I don't deserve your kindness, and I won't come. I've +been very wicked, don't you think?” + +“Not very--for you,” said Jeff. + +“Oh, how good!” she broke out. “But be frank now! I've offended you.” + +“How? I know I'm a jay, and in the country I've got folks.” + +“Ah, I see you're hurt at my joking, and I'm awfully sorry. I wish there +was some way of making you forgive me. But it couldn't be that alone,” + she went on rather aimlessly as to her words, trusting to his answer +for some leading, and willing meanwhile to prolong the situation for the +effect in her nerves. It had been a very dull and tedious day, and she +was finding much more than she could have expected in the mingled fear +and slight which he inspired her with in such singular measure. These +feminine subtleties of motive are beyond any but the finest natures +in the other sex, and perhaps all that Jeff perceived was the note of +insincerity in her words. + +“Couldn't be what alone?” he asked. + +“What I've said,” she ventured, letting her eyes fall; but they were not +eyes that fell effectively, and she instantly lifted them again to his. + +“You haven't said anything, and if you've thought anything, what have I +got to do with that? I think all sorts of things about people--or folks, +as you call them--” + +“Oh, thank you! Now you are forgiving me!” + +“I think them about you!” + +“Oh, do sit down and tell me the kind of things you think about me!” + Bessie implored, sinking back into her chair. + +“You mightn't like them.” + +“But if they would do me good?” + +“What should I want to do you good for?” + +“That's true,” sighed Bessie, thoughtfully. + +“People--folks--” + +“Thank you so much!” + +“Don't try to do each other good, unless they're cranks like Lancaster, +or bores like Mrs. Bevidge--” + +“You belong to the analytical school of Seniors! Go on!” + +“That's all,” said Jeff. + +“And you don't think I've tried to do you good?” + +He laughed. Her comedy was delicious to him. He had never found, anybody +so amusing; he almost respected her for it. + +“If that is your opinion of me, Mr. Durgin,” she said, very gravely, “I +am sorry. May I remark that I don't see why you come, then?” + +“I can tell you,” said Jeff, and he advanced upon her where she sat so +abruptly that she started and shrank back in her chair. “I come because +you've got brains, and you're the only girl that has--here.” They were +Alan's words, almost his words, and for an instant she thought of her +brother, end wondered what he would think of this jay's praising her +in his terms. “Because,” Jeff went on, “you've got more sense and +nonsense--than all the women here put together. Because it's better +than a play to hear you talk--and act; and because you're graceful--and +fascinating, and chic, and--Good-night, Miss Lynde.” + +He put out his hand, but she did not take it as she rose haughtily. +“We've said good-night once. I prefer to say good-bye this time. I'm +sure you will understand why after this I cannot see you again.” She +seemed to examine him for the effect of these words upon him before she +went on. + +“No, I don't understand,” he answered, coolly; “but it isn't necessary +I should; and I'm quite willing to say good-bye, if you prefer. You +haven't been so frank with me as I have with you; but that doesn't make +any difference; perhaps you never meant to be, or couldn't be, if you +meant. Good-bye.” He bowed and turned toward the door. + +She fluttered between him and it. “I wish to know what you accuse me +of!” + +“I? Nothing.” + +“You imply that I have been unjust toward you.” + +“Oh no!” + +“And I can't let you go till you prove it.” + +“Prove to a woman that--Will you let me pass?” + +“No!” She spread her slender arms across the doorway. + +“Oh, very well!” Jeff took her hands and put them both in the hold of +one of his large, strong bands. Then, with the contact, it came to him, +from a varied experience of girls in his rustic past, that this young +lady, who was nothing but a girl after all, was playing her comedy with +a certain purpose, however little she might know it or own it. He put +his other large, strong hand upon her waist, and pulled her to him and +kissed her. Another sort of man, no matter what he had believed of her, +would have felt his act a sacrilege then and there. Jeff only knew +that she had not made the faintest straggle against him; she had even +trembled toward him, and he brutally exulted in the belief that he had +done what she wished, whether it was what she meant or not. + +She, for her part, realized that she had been kissed as once she had +happened to see one of the maids kissed by the grocer's boy at the +basement door. In an instant this man had abolished all her defences of +family, of society, of personality, and put himself on a level with her +in the most sacred things of life. Her mind grasped the fact and +she realized it intellectually, while as yet all her emotions seemed +paralyzed. She did not know whether she resented it as an abominable +outrage or not; whether she hated the man for it or not. But perhaps +he was in love with her, and his love overpowered him; in that case +she could forgive him, if she were in love with him. She asked herself +whether she was, and whether she had betrayed herself to him so that he +was somehow warranted in what he did. She wondered if another sort of +man would have done it, a gentleman, who believed she was in love with +him. She wondered if she were as much shocked as she was astonished. +She knew that there was everything in the situation to make the fact +shocking, but she got no distinct reply from her jarred consciousness. + +It ought to be known, and known at once; she ought to tell her brother, +as soon as she saw him; she thought of telling her aunt, and she fancied +having to shout the affair into her ear, and having to repeat, “He +kissed me! Don't you understand? Kissed me!” Then she reflected with a +start that she could never tell any one, that in the midst of her world +she was alone in relation to this; she was as helpless and friendless as +the poorest and lowliest girl could be. She was more so, for if she were +like the maid whom the grocer's boy kissed she would be of an order of +things in which she could advise with some one else who had been kissed; +and she would know what to feel. + +She asked herself whether she was at all moved at heart; till now it +seemed to her that it had not been different with her toward him from +what it had been toward all the other men whose meaning she would have +liked to find out. She had not in the least respected them, and she did +not respect him; but if it happened because he was overcome by his +love for her, and could not help it, then perhaps she must forgive him +whether she cared for him or not. + +These ideas presented themselves with the simultaneity of things in a +dream in that instant when she lingered helplessly in his hold, and she +even wondered if by any chance Andrew had seen them; but she heard his +step on the floor below; and at the same time it appeared to her that +she must be in love with this man if she did not resent what he had +done. + + + + +XLIII + +Westover was sitting at an open window of his studio smoking out into +the evening air, and looking down into the thinly foliaged tops of the +public garden, where the electrics fainted and flushed and hissed. Cars +trooped by in the troubled street, scraping the wires overhead that +screamed as if with pain at the touch of their trolleys, and kindling +now and again a soft planet, as the trolleys struck the batlike plates +that connected the crossing lines. The painter was getting almost as +much pleasure out of the planets as pain out of the screams, and he was +in an after-dinner languor in which he was very reluctant to recognize a +step, which he thought he knew, on his stairs and his stairs-landing. A +knock at his door followed the sound of the approaching steps. He lifted +himself, and called out, inhospitably, “Come in!” and, as he expected, +Jeff Durgin came in. Westover's meetings with him had been an increasing +discomfort since his return from Lion's Head. The uneasiness which he +commonly felt at the first moment of encounter with him yielded less +and less to the influence of Jeff's cynical bonhomie, and it returned in +force as soon as they parted. + +It was rather dim in the place, except for the light thrown up into +it from the turmoil of lights outside, but he could see that there was +nothing of the smiling mockery on Jeff's face which habitually expressed +his inner hardihood. It was a frowning mockery. + +“Hello!” said Westover. + +“Hello!” answered Jeff. “Any commands for Lion's Head?” + +“What do you mean?” + +“I'm going up there to-morrow. I've got to see Cynthia, and tell her +what I've been doing.” + +Westover waited a moment before he asked: “Do you want me to ask what +you've been doing?” + +“I shouldn't mind it.” + +The painter paused again. “I don't know that I care to ask. Is it any +good?” + +“No!” shouted Jeff. “It's the worst thing yet, I guess you'll think. +I couldn't have believed it myself, if I hadn't been through it. I +shouldn't have supposed I was such a fool. I don't care for the girl; I +never did.” + +“Cynthia?” + +“Cynthia? No! Miss Lynde. Oh, try to take it in!” Jeff cried, with a +laugh at the daze in Westover's face. “You must have known about the +flirtation; if you haven't, you're the only one.” His vanity in the fact +betrayed itself in his voice. “It came to a crisis last week, and we +tried to make each other believe that we were in earnest. But there +won't be any real love lost.” + +Westover did not speak. He could not make out whether he was surprised +or whether he was shocked, and it seemed to him that he was neither +surprised nor shocked. He wondered whether he had really expected +something of the kind, sooner or later, or whether he was not always so +apprehensive of some deviltry in Durgin that nothing he did could quite +take him unawares. At last he said: “I suppose it's true--even though +you say it. It's probably the only truth in you.” + +“That's something like,” said Jeff, as if the contempt gave him a sort +of pleasure; and his heavy face lighted up and then darkened again. + +“Well,” said Westover, “what are we going to do? You've come to tell +me.” + +“I'm going to break with her. I don't care for her--that!” He snapped +his fingers. “I told her I cared because she provoked me to. It happened +because she wanted it to and led up to it.” + +“Ah!” said Westover. “You put it on her!” But he waited for Durgin's +justification with a dread that he should find something in it. + +“Pshaw! What's the use? It's been a game from the beginning, and a +question which should ruin. I won. She meant to throw me over, if the +time came for her, but it came for me first, and it's only a question +now which shall break first; we've both been near it once or twice +already. I don't mean she shall get the start of me.” + +Westover had a glimpse of the innate enmity of the sexes in this game; +of its presence in passion that was lived and of its prevalence in +passion that was played. But the fate of neither gambler concerned him; +he was impatient of his interest in what Jeff now went on to tell him, +without scruple concerning her, or palliation of himself. He scarcely +realized that he was listening, but afterward he remembered it all, with +a little pity for Bessie and none for Jeff, but with more shame for her, +too. Love seems more sacredly confided to women than to men; it is and +must be a higher and finer as well as a holier thing with them; their +blame for its betrayal must always be the heavier. He had sometimes +suspected Bessie's willingness to amuse herself with Jeff, as with any +other man who would let her play with him; and he would not have relied +upon anything in him to defeat her purpose, if it had been anything so +serious as a purpose. + +At the end of Durgin's story he merely asked: “And what are you going to +do about Cynthia?” + +“I am going to tell her,” said Jeff. “That's what I am going up there +for.” + +Westover rose, but Jeff remained sitting where he had put himself +astride of a chair, with his face over the back. The painter walked +slowly up and down before him in the capricious play of the street +light. He turned a little sick, and he stopped a moment at the window +for a breath of air. + +“Well?” asked Jeff. + +“Oh! You want my advice?” Westover still felt physically incapable of +the indignation which he strongly imagined. “I don't know what to say +to you, Durgin. You transcend my powers. Are you able to see this whole +thing yourself?” + +“I guess so,” Jeff answered. “I don't idealize it, though. I look at +facts; they're bad enough. You don't suppose that Miss Lynde is going to +break her heart over--” + +“I don't believe I care for Miss Lynde any more than I care for you. But +I believe I wish you were not going to break with her.” + +“Why?” + +“Because you and she are fit for each other. If you want my advice, I +advise you to be true to her--if you can.” + +“And Cynthia?” + +“Break with her.” + +“Oh!” Jeff gave a snort of derision. + +“You're not fit for her. You couldn't do a crueler thing for her than to +keep faith with her.” + +“Do you mean it?” + +“Yes, I mean it. Stick to Miss Lynde--if she'll let you.” + +Jeff seemed puzzled by Westover's attitude, which was either too sincere +or too ironical for him. He pushed his hat, which he had kept on, back +from his forehead. “Damned if I don't believe she would,” he mused +aloud. The notion seemed to flatter him and repay him for what he must +have been suffering. He smiled, but he said: “She wouldn't do, even if +she were any good. Cynthia is worth a million of her. If she wants to +give me up after she knows all about me, well and good. I shu'n't blame +her. But I shall give her a fair chance, and I shu'n't whitewash myself; +you needn't be afraid of that, Mr. Westover.” + +“Why should I care what you do?” asked the painter, scornfully. + +“Well, you can't, on my account,” Durgin allowed. “But you do care on +her account.” + +“Yes, I do,” said Westover, sitting down again, and he did not say +anything more. + +Durgin waited a long while for him to speak before he asked: “Then +that's really your advice, is it?” + +“Yes, break with her.” + +“And stick to Miss Lynde.” + +“If she'll let you.” + +Jeff was silent in his turn. He started from his silence with a laugh. +“She'd make a daisy landlady for Lion's Head. I believe she would like +to try it awhile just for the fun. But after the ball was over--well, +it would be a good joke, if it was a joke. Cynthia is a woman--she a'n't +any corpse-light. She understands me, and she don't overrate me, +either. She knew just how much I was worth, and she took me at her own +valuation. I've got my way in life marked out, and she believes in it as +much as I do. If anybody can keep me level and make the best of me, she +can, and she's going to have the chance, if she wants to. I'm going to +act square with her about the whole thing. I guess she's the best judge +in a case like this, and I shall lay the whole case before her, don't +you be afraid of that. And she's got to have a free field. Why, even +if there wa'n't any question of her,” he went on, falling more and more +into his vernacular, “I don't believe I should care in the long run for +this other one. We couldn't make it go for any time at all. She wants +excitement, and after the summer folks began to leave, and we'd been +to Florida for a winter, and then came back to Lion's Head-well! This +planet hasn't got excitement enough in it for that girl, and I doubt if +the solar system has. At any rate, I'm not going to act as advance-agent +for her.” + +“I see,” said Westover, “that you've been reasoning it all out, and I'm +not surprised that you've kept your own advantage steadily in mind. +I don't suppose you know what a savage you are, and I don't suppose I +could teach you. I sha'n't try, at any rate. I'll take you on your own +ground, and I tell you again you had better break with Cynthia. I won't +say that it's what you owe her, for that won't have any effect with you, +but it's what you owe yourself. You can't do a wrong thing and prosper +on it--” + +“Oh yes, you can,” Jeff interrupted, with a sneering laugh. “How do you +suppose all the big fortunes were made? By keeping the Commandments?” + +“No. But you're an unlucky man if life hasn't taught you that you must +pay in suffering of some kind, sooner or later, for every wrong thing +you do--” + +“Now that's one of your old-fashioned superstitions, Mr. Westover,” said +Jeff, with a growing kindliness in his tone, as if the pathetic delusion +of such a man really touched him. “You pay, or you don't pay, just as +it happens. If you get hit soon after you've done wrong, you think it's +retribution, and if it holds off till you've forgotten all about it, you +think it's a strange Providence, and you puzzle over it, but you don't +reform. You keep right along in the old way. Prosperity and adversity, +they've got nothing to do with conduct. If you're a strong man, you get +there, and if you're a weak man, all the righteousness in the universe +won't help you. But I propose to do what's right about Cynthia, and not +what's wrong; and according to your own theory, of life--which won't +hold water a minute--I ought to be blessed to the third and fourth +generation. I don't look for that, though. I shall be blessed if I look +out for myself; and if I don't, I shall suffer for my want of foresight. +But I sha'n't suffer for anything else. Well, I'm going to cut some of +my recitations, and I'm going up to Lion's Head, to-morrow, to settle +my business with Cynthia. I've got a little business to look after here +with some one else first, and I guess I shall have to be about it. I +don't know which I shall like the best.” He rose, and went over to where +Westover was sitting, and held out his hand to him. + +“What is it?” asked Westover. + +“Any commands for Lion's Head?” Jeff said, as at first. + +“No,” said Westover, turning his face away. + +“Oh, all right.” Durgin put his hand into his pocket unshaken. + + + + +XLIV + +“What is it, Jeff?” asked Cynthia, the next night, as they started out +together after supper, and began to stroll down the hill toward her +father's house. It lay looking very little and low in the nook at the +foot of the lane, on the verge of the woods that darkened away to the +northward from it, under the glassy night sky, lit with the spare young +moon. The peeping of the frogs in the marshy places filled the air; the +hoarse voice of the brook made itself heard at intervals through them. + +“It's not so warm here, quite, as it is in Boston,” he returned. “Are +you wrapped up enough? This air has an edge to it.” + +“I'm all right,” said the girl. “What is it?” + +“You think there's something? You don't believe I've come up for rest +over Sunday? I guess mother herself didn't, and I could see your father +following up my little lies as if he wa'n't going to let one escape him. +Well, you're right. There is something. Think of the worst thing you +can, Cynthy!” + +She pulled her hand out of his arm, which she had taken, and halted him +by her abrupt pause. “You're not going to get through!” + +“I'm all right on my conditions,” said Jeff, with forlorn derision. +“You'll have to guess again.” He stood looking back over his shoulder at +her face, which showed white in the moonlight, swathed airily round in +the old-fashioned soft woollen cloud she wore. + +“Is it some trouble you've got into? I shall stand by you!” + +“Oh, you splendid girl! The trouble's over, but it's something you can't +stand by me in, I guess. You know that girl I wrote to you about--the +one I met at the college tea, and--” + +“Yes! Miss Lynde!” + +“Come on! We can't stay here talking. Let's go down and sit on your +porch.” She mechanically obeyed him, and they started on together down +the hill again; but she did not offer to take his arm, and he kept the +width of the roadway from her. + +“What about her?” she quietly asked. + +“Last night I ended up the flirtation I've been carrying on with her +ever since.” + +“I want to know just what you mean, Jeff.” + +“I mean that last week I got engaged to her, and last night I broke with +her.” Cynthia seemed to stumble on something; he sprang over and caught. +her, and now she put her hand in his arm, and stayed herself by him as +they walked. + +“Go on,” she said. + +“That's all there is of it.” + +“No!” She stopped, and then she asked, with a kind of gentle +bewilderment: “What did you want to tell me for?” + +“To let you break with me--if you wanted to.” + +“Don't you care for me any more?” + +“Yes, more than ever I did. But I'm not fit for you, Cynthia. Mr. +Westover said I wasn't. I told him about it--” + +“What did he say?” + +“That I ought to break with you.” + +“But if you broke with her?” + +“He told me to stick to her. He was right about you, Cynthy. I'm not fit +for you, and that's a fact.” + +“What was it about that girl? Tell me everything.” She spoke in a tone +of plaintive entreaty, very unlike the command she once used with Jeff +when she was urging him to be frank with her and true to himself. They +had come to her father's house and she freed her hand from his arm +again, and sat down on the step before the side door with a little sigh +as of fatigue. + +“You'll take cold,” said Jeff, who remained on foot in front of her. + +“No,” she said, briefly. “Go on.” + +“Why,” Jeff began, harshly, and with a note of scorn for himself and his +theme in his voice, “there isn't any more of it, but there's no end +to her. I promised Mr. Westover I shouldn't whitewash myself, and I +sha'n't. I've been behaving badly, and it's no excuse for me because she +wanted me to. I began to go for her as soon as I saw that she wanted me +to, and that she liked the excitement. The excitement is all that she +cared for; she didn't care for me except for the excitement of it. She +thought she could have fun with me, and then throw me over; but I guess +she found her match. You couldn't understand such a girl, and I don't +brag of it. All she cared for was to flirt with me, and she liked it all +the more because I was a jay and she could get something new out of it. +I can't explain it; but I could see it right along. She fooled herself +more than she fooled me.” + +“Was she--very good-looking?” Cynthia asked, listlessly. + +“No!” shouted Jeff. “She wasn't good-looking at all. She was dark and +thin, and she had little slanting eyes; but she was graceful, and she +knew how to make herself go further than any girl I ever saw. If she +came into a room, she made you look at her, or you had to somehow. She +was bright, too; and she had more sense than all the other girls there +put together. But she was a fool, all the same.” Jeff paused. “Is that +enough?” + +“It isn't all.” + +“No, it isn't all. We didn't meet much at first, but I got to walking +home with her from some teas; and then we met at a big ball. I +danced with her the whole while nearly, and--and I took her brother +home--Pshaw! He was drunk; and I--well, he had got drunk drinking with +me at the ball. The wine didn't touch me, but it turned his head; and +I took him home; he's a drunkard, anyway. She let us in when we got to +their house, and that kind of made a tie between us. She pretended to +think she was under obligations to me, and so I got to going to her +house.” + +“Did she know how her brother got drunk?” + +“She does now. I told her last night.” + +“How came you to tell her?” + +“I wanted to break with her. I wanted to stop it, once for all, and I +thought that would do it, if anything would.” + +“Did that make her willing to give you up?” + +Jeff checked himself in a sort of retrospective laugh. “I'm not so sure. +I guess she liked the excitement of that, too. You couldn't understand +the kind of girl she--She wanted to flirt with me that night I brought +him home tipsy.” + +“I don't care to hear any more about her. Why did you give her up?” + +“Because I didn't care for her, and I did care for you, Cynthy.” + +“I don't believe it.” Cynthia rose from the step, where she had been +sitting, as if with renewed strength. “Go up and tell father to come +down here. I want to see him.” She turned and put her hand on the latch +of the door. + +“You're not going in there, Cynthia,” said Jeff. “It must be like death +in there.” + +“It's more like death out here. But if it's the cold you mean, you +needn't be troubled. We've had a fire to-day, airing out the house. Will +you go?” + +“But what do you--what are you going to say to me?” + +“I don't know, yet. If I said anything now, I should tell you what Mr. +Westover did: go back to that girl, if she'll let you. You're fit for +each other, as he said. Did you tell her that you were engaged to some +one else?” + +“I did, last night.” + +“But before that she didn't know how false you were. Well, you're not +fit for her, then; you're not good enough.” + +She opened the door and went in, closing it after her. Jeff turned and +walked slowly away; then he came quickly back, as if he were going to +follow her within. But through the window he saw her as she stood by the +table with a lamp in her hand. She had turned up the light, which shone +full in her face and revealed its severe beauty broken and writhen with +the effort to repress her weeping. He might not have minded the severity +or the beauty, but the pathos was more than he could stand. “Oh, Lord!” + he said, with a shrug, and he turned again and walked slowly up the +hill. + +When Whitwell faced his daughter in the little sitting-room, whose low +ceiling his hat almost touched as he stood before her, the storm had +passed with her, and her tear-drenched visage wore its wonted look of +still patience. + +“Did Jeff tell you why I sent for you, father?” + +“No. But I knew it was trouble,” said Whitwell, with a dignity which-his +sympathy for her gave a countenance better adapted to the expression of +the lighter emotions. + +“I guess you were right about him,” she resumed: She went on to tell +in brief the story that Jeff had told her. Her father did not interrupt +her, but at the end he said, inadequately: “He's a comical devil. I knew +about his gittin' that feller drunk. Mr. Westover told me when he was up +here.” + +“Mr. Westover did!” said Cynthia, in a note of indignation. + +“He didn't offer to,” Whitwell explained. “I got it out of him in spite +of him, I guess.” He had sat down with his hat on, as his absent-minded +habit was, and he now braced his knees against the edge of the table. +Cynthia sat across it from him with her head drooped over it, drawing +vague figures on the board with her finger. “What are you goin' to do?” + +“I don't know,” she answered. + +“I guess you don't quite realize it yet,” her father suggested, +tenderly. “Well, I don't want to hurry you any. Take your time.” + +“I guess I realize it,” said the girl. + +“Well, it's a pootty plain case, that's a fact,” Whitwell conceded. She +was silent, and he asked: “How did he come to tell you?” + +“It's what he came up for. He began to tell me at once. I was certain +there was some trouble.” + +“Was it his notion to come, I wonder, or Mr. Westover's?” + +“It was his. But Mr. Westover told him to break off with me, and keep on +with her, if she would let him.” + +“I guess that was pootty good advice,” said Whitwell, letting his face +betray his humorous relish of it. “I guess there's a pair of 'em.” + +“She was not playing any one else false,” said Cynthia, bitterly. + +“Well, I guess that's so, too,” her father assented. “'Ta'n't so much of +a muchness as you might think, in that light.” He took refuge from the +subject in an undirected whistle. + +After a moment the girl asked, forlornly: “What should you do, father, +if you were in my place?” + +“Well, there I guess you got me, Cynthy,” said her father. “I don't +believe 't any man, I don't care how old he is, or how much experience +he's had, knows exactly how a girl feels about a thing like this, or has +got any call to advise her. Of course, the way I feel is like takin' the +top of his head off. But I d' know,” he added, “as that would do a great +deal of good, either. I presume a woman's got rather of a chore to get +along with a man, anyway. We a'n't any of us much to brag on. It's out +o' sight, out o' mind, with the best of us, I guess.” + +“It wouldn't be with Jackson--it wouldn't be with Mr. Westover.” + +“There a'n't many men like Mr. Westover--well, not a great many; +or Jackson, either. Time! I wish Jackson was home! He'd know how to +straighten this thing out, and he wouldn't weaken over Jeff much--well, +not much. But he a'n't here, and you've got to act for yourself. The way +I look at it is this: you took Jeff when you knowed what a comical +devil he was, and I presume you ha'n't got quite the same right to be +disappointed in what he done as if you hadn't knowed. Now mind, I a'n't +excusin' him. But if you knowed he was the feller to play the devil if +he got a chance, the question is whether--whether--” + +“I know what you mean, father,” said the girl, “and I don't want to +shirk my responsibility. It was everything to have him come right up and +tell me.” + +“Well,” said Whitwell, impartially, “as far forth as that goes, I don't +think he's strained himself. He'd know you would hear of it sooner or +later anyway, and he ha'n't just found out that he was goin' wrong. Been +keepin' it up for the last three months, and writin' you all the while +them letters you was so crazy to get.” + +“Yes,” sighed the girl. “But we've got to be just to his disposition as +well as his actions. I can see it in one light that can excuse it some. +He can't bear to be put down, and I know he's been left out a good +deal among the students, and it's made him bitter. He told me about it; +that's one reason why he wanted to leave Harvard this last year. He saw +other young men made much of, when he didn't get any notice; and when +he had the chance to pay them back with a girl of their own set that was +trying to make a fool of him--” + +“That was the time for him to remember you,” said Whitwell. + +Cynthia broke under the defence she was trying to make. “Yes,” she said, +with an indrawn sigh, and she began to sob piteously. + +The sight of her grief seemed to kindle her father's wrath to a flame. +“Any way you look at him, he's been a dumn blackguard; that's what he's +been. You're a million times too good for him; and I--” + +She sobbed herself quiet, and then she said: “Father, I don't like to go +up there to-night. I want to stay here.” + +“All right, Cynthia. I'll come down and stay with you. You got +everything we want here?” + +“Yes. And I'll go up and get the breakfast for them in the morning. +There won't be much to do.” + +“Dumn 'em! Let 'em get their own breakfast!” said Whitwell, recklessly. + +“And, father,” the girl went on as if he had not spoken, “don't you talk +to Mrs. Durgin about it, will you?” + +“No, no. I sha'n't speak to her. I'll just tell Frank you and me are +goin' to stay down here to-night. She'll suspicion something, but she +can figure it out for herself. Or she can make Jeff tell her. It can't +be kept from her.” + +“Well, let him be the one to tell her. Whatever happens, I shall never +speak of it to a soul besides you.” + +“All right, Cynthy. You'll have the night to think it over--I guess you +won't sleep much--and I'll trust you to do what's the best thing about +it.” + + + + +XLV. + +Cynthia found Mrs. Durgin in the old farm-house kitchen at work getting +breakfast when she came up to the hotel in the morning. She was early, +but the elder woman had been earlier still, and her heavy face showed +more of their common night-long trouble than the girl's. + +She demanded, at sight of her, “What's the matter with you and Jeff, +Cynthy?” + +Cynthia was unrolling the cloud from her hair. She said, as she tied on +her apron: “You must get him to tell you, Mrs. Durgin.” + +“Then there is something?” + +“Yes.” + +“Has Jeff been using you wrong?” + +Cynthia stooped to open the oven door, and to turn the pan of biscuit +she found inside. She shut the door sharply to, and said, as she rose: +“I don't want to tell anything about it, and I sha'n't, Mrs. Durgin. He +can do it, if he wants to. Shall I make the coffee?” + +“Yes; you seem to make it better than I do. Do you think I shouldn't +believe you was fair to him?” + +“I wasn't thinking of that. But it's his secret. If he wants to keep it, +he can keep it, for all me.” + +“You ha'n't give each other up?” + +“I don't know.” Cynthia turned away with a trembling chin, and began to +beat the coffee up with an egg she had dropped into the pot. She put +the breakfast on the table when it was ready, but she would not sit down +with the rest. She said she did not want any breakfast, and she drank a +cup of coffee in the kitchen. + +It fell to Jeff mainly to keep the talk going. He had been out at the +barn with Jombateeste since daybreak, looking after the cattle, and the +joy of the weather had got into his nerves and spirits. At first he +had lain awake after he went to bed, but he had fallen asleep about +midnight, and got a good night's rest. He looked fresh and strong and +very handsome. He talked resolutely to every one at the table, but +Jombateeste was always preoccupied with eating at his meals, and Frank +Whitwell had on a Sunday silence, which was perhaps deepened by a +feeling that there was something wrong between his sister and Jeff, +and it would be rash to commit himself to an open friendliness until he +understood the case. His father met Jeff's advances with philosophical +blandness and evasion, and Mrs. Durgin was provisionally dry and severe +both with the Whitwells and her son. After breakfast she went to the +parlor, and Jeff set about a tour of the hotel, inside and out. He +looked carefully to the details of its winter keeping. Then he came +back and boldly joined his mother where she sat before her stove, whose +subdued heat she found pleasant in the lingering cold of the early +spring. + +He tossed his hat on the table beside her, and sat down on the other +side of the stove. “Well, I must say the place has been well looked +after. I don't believe Jackson himself could have kept it in better +shape. When was the last you heard from him?” + +“I hope,” said his mother, gravely, “you've been lookin' after your end +at Boston, too.” + +“Well, not as well as you have here, mother,” said Jeff, candidly. “Has +Cynthy told you?” + +“I guess she expected you to tell me, if there was anything.” + +“There's a lot; but I guess I needn't go over it all. I've been playing +the devil.” + +“Jeff!” + +“Yes, I have. I've been going with another girl down there, one the kind +you wanted me to make up to, and I went so far I--well, I made love to +her; and then I thought it over, and found out I didn't really care for +her, and I had to tell her so, and then I came up to tell Cynthy. That's +about the size of it. What do you think of it?” + +“D' you tell Cynthy?” + +“Yes, I told her.” + +“What 'd she say?” + +“She said I'd better go back to the other girl.” Jeff laughed hardily, +but his mother remained impassive. + +“I guess she's right; I guess you had.” + +“That seems to be the general opinion. That's what Mr. Westover advised. +I seem to be the only one against it. I suppose you mean that I'm not +fit for Cynthy. I don't deny it. All I say is I want her, and I don't +want the other one. What are you going to do in a case like that?” + +“The way I should look at it,” said his mother, “is this: whatever you +are, Cynthy made you. You was a lazy, disobedient, worthless boy, and +it was her carin' for you from the first that put any spirit and any +principle into you. It was her that helped you at school when you was +little things together; and she helped you at the academy, and she's +helped you at college. I'll bet she could take a degree, or whatever +it is, at Harvard better than you could now; and if you ever do take a +degree, you've got her to thank for it.” + +“That's so,” said Jeff. “And what's the reason you didn't want me to +marry her when I came in here last summer and told you I'd asked her +to?” + +“You know well enough what the reason was. It was part of the same thing +as my wantin' you to be a lawyer; but I might knowed that if you didn't +have Cynthy to go into court with you, and put the words into your +mouth, you wouldn't make a speech that would”--Mrs. Durgin paused for a +fitting figure--“save a flea from the gallows.” + +Jeff burst into a laugh. “Well, I guess that's so, mother. And now you +want me to throw away the only chance I've got of learning how to run +Lion's Head in the right way by breaking with Cynthy.” + +“Nobody wants you to run Lion's Head for a while yet,” his mother +returned, scornfully. “Jackson is going to run Lion's Head. He'll be +home the end of June, and I'll run Lion's Head till he gets here. You +talk,” she went on, “as if it was in your hands to break with Cynthy, or +throw away the chance with her. The way I look at it, she's broke with +you, and you ha'n't got any chance with her. Oh, Jeff,” she suddenly +appealed to him, “tell me all about it! What have you been up to? If I +understood it once, I know I can make her see it in the right light.” + +“The better you understand it, mother, the less you'll like it; and I +guess Cynthy sees it in the right light already. What did she say?” + +“Nothing. She said she'd leave it to you.” + +“Well, that's like Cynthy. I'll tell you, then,” said Jeff; and he +told his mother his whole affair with Bessie Lynde. He had to be +very elemental, and he was aware, as he had never been before, of the +difference between Bessie's world and his mother's world, in trying to +make Bessie's world conceivable to her. + +He was patient in going over every obscure point, and illustrating from +the characters and condition of different summer folks the facts +of Bessie's entourage. It is doubtful, however, if he succeeded in +conveying to his mother a clear and just notion of the purely chic +nature of the girl. In the end she seemed to conceive of her simply as +a hussy, and so pronounced her, without limit or qualification, in spite +of Jeff's laughing attempt to palliate her behavior, and to inculpate +himself. She said she did not see what he had done that was so much out +of the way. That thing had led him on from the beginning; she had merely +got her come-uppings, when all was said. Mrs. Durgin believed Cynthia +would look at it as she did, if she could have it put before her +rightly. Jeff shook his head with persistent misgiving. His notion was +that Cynthia saw the affair only too clearly, and that there was no new +light to be thrown on it from her point of view. Mrs. Durgin would not +allow this; she was sure that she could bring Cynthia round; and she +asked Jeff whether it was his getting that fellow drunk that she seemed +to blame him for the most. He answered that he thought that was pretty +bad, but he did not believe that was the worst thing in Cynthia's eyes. +He did not forbid his mother's trying to do what she could with her, +and he went away for a walk, and left the house to the two women. +Jombateeste was in the barn, which he preferred to the house, and +Frank Whitwell had gone to church over at the Huddle. As Jeff passed +Whitwell's cottage in setting out on his stroll he saw the philosopher +through the window, seated with his legs on the table, his hat pushed +back, and his spectacles fallen to the point of his nose, reading, and +moving his lips as he read. + +The forenoon sun was soft, but the air was cool. + +There was still plenty of snow on the upper slopes of the hills, and +there was a drift here and there in a corner of pasture wall in the +valley; but the springtime green was beginning to hover over the wet +places in the fields; the catkins silvered the golden tracery of the +willow branches by the brook; there was a buzz of bees about them, and +about the maples, blackened by the earlier flow of sap through the holes +in the bark made by the woodpeckers' bills. Now and then the tremolo of +a bluebird shook in the tender light and the keen air. At one point in +the road where the sun fell upon some young pines in a sheltered spot a +balsamic odor exhaled from them. + +These gentle sights and sounds and odors blended in the influence which +Jeff's spirit felt more and more. He realized that he was a blot on the +loveliness of the morning. He had a longing to make atonement and to win +forgiveness. His heart was humbled toward Cynthia, and he went wondering +how his mother would make it out with her, and how, if she won him any +advantage, he should avail himself of it and regain the girl's trust; +he had no doubt of her love. He perceived that there was nothing for +him hereafter but the most perfect constancy of thought and deed, and he +desired nothing better. + +At a turn of his road where it branched toward the Huddle a group of +young girls stood joking and laughing; before Jeff came up with them +they separated, and all but one continued on the way beyond the turning. +She came toward Jeff, who gayly recognized her as she drew near. + +She blushed and bridled at his bow and at his beauty and splendor, and +in her embarrassment pertly said that she did not suppose he would have +remembered her. She was very young, but at fifteen a country girl is not +so young as her town sister at eighteen in the ways of the other sex. + +Jeff answered that he should have known her anywhere, in spite of her +looking so much older than she did in the summer when she had come with +berries to the hotel. He said she must be feeling herself quite a young +lady now, in her long dresses, and he praised the dress which she had +on. He said it became her style; and he found such relief from his heavy +thoughts in these harmless pleasantries that he kept on with them. He +had involuntarily turned with her to walk back to her house on the way +he had come, and he asked her if he might not carry her catkins for her. +She had a sheaf of them in the hollow of her slender arm, which seemed +to him very pretty, and after a little struggle she yielded them to him. +The struggle gave him still greater relief from his self-reproach, +and at her gate he begged her to let him keep one switch of the +pussywillows, and he stood a moment wondering whether he might not +ask her for something else. She chose one from the bundle, and drew it +lightly across his face before she put it in his hand. “You may have +this for Cynthy,” she said, and she ran laughingly up the pathway to her +door. + + + + +XLVI + +Cynthia did not appear at dinner, and Jeff asked his mother when he saw +her alone if she had spoken to the girl. “Yes, but she said she did not +want to talk yet.” + +“All right,” he returned. “I'm going to take a nap; I believe I feel as +if I hadn't slept for a month.” + +He slept the greater part of the afternoon, and came down rather dull to +the early tea. Cynthia was absent again, and his mother was silent and +wore a troubled look. Whitwell was full of a novel conception of the +agency of hypnotism in interpreting the life of the soul as it is +intimated in dreams. He had been reading a book that affirmed the +consubstantiality of the sleep-dream and the hypnotic illusion. He +wanted to know if Jeff, down at Boston, had seen anything of the +hypnotic doings that would throw light on this theory. + +It was still full light when they rose from the table, and it was +scarcely twilight when Jeff heard Cynthia letting herself out at the +back door. He fancied her going down to her father's house, and he went +out to the corner of the hotel to meet her. She faltered a moment at +sight of him, and then kept on with averted face. + +He joined her, and walked beside her. “Well, Cynthy, what are you going +to say to me? I'm off for Cambridge again to-morrow morning, and I +suppose we've got to understand each other. I came up here to put myself +in your hands, to keep or to throw away, just as you please. Well? Have +you thought about it?” + +“Every minute,” said the girl, quietly. + +“Well?” + +“If you had cared for me, it couldn't have happened.” + +“Oh yes, it could. Now that's just where you're mistaken. That's where +a woman never can understand a man. I might carry on with half a dozen +girls, and yet never forget you, or think less of you, although I could +see all the time how pretty and bright every one of 'em was. That's the +way a man's mind is built. It's curious, but it's true.” + +“I don't believe I care for any share in your mind, then,” said the +girl. + +“Oh, come, now! You don't mean that. You know I was just joking; you +know I don't justify what I've done, and I don't excuse it. But I think +I've acted pretty square with you about it--about telling you, I mean. +I don't want to lay any claim, but you remember when you made me promise +that if there was anything shady I wanted to hide from you--Well, I +acted on that. You do remember?” + +“Yes,” said Cynthia, and she pulled the cloud over the side of her face +next to him, and walked a little faster. + +He hastened his steps to keep up with her. “Cynthy, if you put your arms +round me, as you did then--” + +“I can't Jeff!” + +“You don't want to.” + +“Yes, I do! But you don't want me to, as you did then. Do you?” She +stopped abruptly and faced him full. “Tell me, honestly!” + +Jeff dropped his bold eyes, and the smile left his handsome mouth. + +“You don't,” said the girl, “for you know that if you did, I would do +it.” She began to walk on again. “It wouldn't be hard for me to forgive +you anything you've done against me--or against yourself; I should care +for you the same--if you were the same person; but you're not the same, +and you know it. I told you then--that time that I didn't want to make +you do what you knew was right, and I never shall try to do it again. +I'm sorry I did it then. I was wrong. And I should be afraid of you if I +did now. Some time you would make me suffer for it, just as you've made +me suffer for making you do then what was right.” + +It struck Jeff as a very curious fact that Cynthia must always have +known him better than he knew himself in some ways, for he now perceived +the truth and accuracy of her words. He gave her mind credit for the +penetration due her heart; he did not understand that it is through +their love women divine the souls of men. What other witnesses of his +character had slowly and carefully reasoned out from their experience of +him she had known from the beginning, because he was dear to her. + +He was silent, and then, with rare gravity, he said, “Cynthia, I believe +you're right,” and he never knew how her heart leaped toward him at +his words. “I'm a pretty bad chap, I guess. But I want you to give me +another chance and I'll try not to make you pay for it, either,” he +added, with a flicker of his saucy humor. + +“I'll give you a chance, then,” she said, and she shrank from the hand +he put out toward her. “Go back and tell that girl you're free now, and +if she wants you she can have you.” + +“Is that what you call a chance?” demanded Jeff, between anger and +injury. For an instant he imagined her deriding him and revenging +herself. + +“It's the only one I can give you. She's never tried to make you do what +was right, and you'll never be tempted to hurt her.” + +“You're pretty rough on me, Cynthy,” Jeff protested, almost plaintively. +He asked, more in character: “Ain't you afraid of making me do right, +now?” + +“I'm not making you. I don't promise you anything, even if she won't +have you.” + +“Oh!” + +“Did you suppose I didn't mean that you were free? That I would put a +lie in your mouth for you to be true with?” + +“I guess you're too deep for me,” said Jeff, after a sulky silence. + +“Then it's all off between us? What do you say?” + +“What do you say?” + +“I say it's just as it was before, if you care for me.” + +“I care for you, but it can never be the same as it was before. What +you've done, you've done. I wish I could help it, but I can't. I can't +make myself over into what I was twenty-four hours ago. I seem another +person, in another world; it's as if I died, and came to life somewhere +else. I'm sorry enough, if that could help, but it can't. Go and tell +that girl the truth: that you came up here to me, and I sent you back to +her.” + +A gleam of amusement visited Jeff in the gloom where he seemed to be +darkling. He fancied doing that very thing with Bessie Lynde, and the +wild joy she would snatch from an experience so unique, so impossible. +Then the gleam faded. “And what if I didn't want her?” he demanded. + +“Tell her that too,” said Cynthia. + +“I suppose,” said Jeff, sulkily, “you'll let me go away and do as I +please, if I'm free.” + +“Oh yes. I don't want you to do anything because I told you. I won't +make that mistake again. Go and do what you are able to do of your own +free will. You know what you ought to do as well as I do; and you know a +great deal better what you can do.” + +They had reached Cynthia's house, and they were talking at the side +door, as they had the night before, when there had been hope for her in +the newness of her calamity, before she had yet fully imagined it. + +Jeff made no answer to her last words. He asked, “Am I going to see you +again?” + +“I guess not. I don't believe I shall be up before you start.” + +“All right. Good-bye, then.” He held out his hand, and she put hers in +it for the moment he chose to hold it. Then he turned and slowly climbed +the hill. + +Cynthia was still lying with her face in her pillow when her father +came into the dark little house, and peered into her room with the newly +lighted lamp in his hand. She turned her face quickly over and looked at +him with dry and shining eyes. + +“Well, it's all over with Jeff and me, father.” + +“Well, I'm satisfied,” said Whitwell. “If you could ha' made it up, so +you could ha' felt right about it, I shouldn't ha' had anything to say +against it, but I'm glad it's turned out the way it has. He's a comical +devil, and he always was, and I'm glad you a'n't takin' on about him any +more. You used to have so much spirit when you was little.” + +“Oh,--spirit! You don't know how much spirit I've had, now.” + +“Well, I presume not,” Whitwell assented. + +“I've been thinking,” said the girl, after a little pause, “that we +shall have to go away from here.” + +“Well, I guess not,” her father began. “Not for no Jeff Dur--” + +“Yes, yes. We must! Don't make one talk about it. We'll stay here till +Jackson gets back in June, and then--we must go somewhere else. We'll go +down to Boston, and I'll try to get a place to teach, or something, and +Frank can get a place.” + +“I presume,” Whitwell mused, “that Mr. Westover could--” + +“Father!” cried the girl, with an energy that startled him, as she +lifted herself on her elbow. “Don't ever think of troubling Mr. +Westover! Oh,” she lamented, “I was thinking of troubling him myself! +But we mustn't, we mustn't! I should be so ashamed!” + +“Well,” said Whitwell, “time enough to think about all that. We got two +good months yet to plan it out before Jackson gets back, and I guess we +can think of something before that. I presume,” he added, thoughtfully, +“that when Mrs. Durgin hears that you've give Jeff the sack, she'll make +consid'able of a kick. She done it when you got engaged.” + + + + +XLVII. + +After he went back to Cambridge, Jeff continued mechanically in the +direction given him by motives which had ceased for him. In the midst +of his divergence with Bessie Lynde he had still kept an inner fealty to +Cynthia, and tried to fulfil the purposes and ambition she had for him. +The operation of this habitual allegiance now kept him up to his work, +but the time must come when it could no longer operate, when his whole +consciousness should accept the fact known to his intelligence, and he +should recognize the close of that incident of his life as the bereaved +finally accept and recognize the fact of death. + +The event brought him relief, and it brought him freedom. He was +sensible in his relaxation of having strained up to another's ideal, of +having been hampered by another's will. His pleasure in the relief was +tempered by a regret, not wholly unpleasant, for the girl whose aims, +since they were no longer his, must be disappointed. He was sorry for +Cynthia, and in his remorse he was fonder of her than he had ever been. +He felt her magnanimity and clemency; he began to question, in that +wordless deep of being where volition begins, whether it would not be +paying a kind of duty to her if he took her at her word and tried to go +back to Bessie Lynde. But for the present he did nothing but renounce +all notion of working at his conditions, or attempting to take a degree. +That was part of a thing that was past, and was no part of anything to +come, so far as Jeff now forecast his future. + +He did not choose to report himself to Westover, and risk a scolding, +or a snubbing. He easily forgave Westover for the tone he had taken at +their last meeting, but he did not care to see him. He would have met +him half-way, however, in a friendly advance, and he was aware of much +good-will toward him, which he could not have been reluctant to show if +chance had brought them together. + +Jeff missed Cynthia's letters which used to come so regularly every +Tuesday, and he had a half-hour every Sunday which was at first rather +painfully vacant since he no longer wrote to her. But in this vacancy +he had at least no longer the pang of self-reproach which her letters +always brought him, and he was not obliged to put himself to the shame +of concealment in writing to her. He had never minded that tacit lying +on his own account, but he hated it in relation to her; it always hurt +him as something incongruous and unfit. He wrote to his mother now +on Sunday, and in his first letter, while the impression of Cynthia's +dignity and generosity was still vivid, he urged her to make it clear to +the girl that he wished her and her family to remain at Lion's Head as +if nothing had happened. He put a great deal of real feeling into this +request, and he offered to go and spend a year in Europe, if his mother +thought that Cynthia would be more reconciled to his coming back at the +end of that time. + +His mother answered with a dryness to which his ear supplied the tones +of her voice, that she would try to get along in the management of +Lion's Head till his brother got back, but that she had no objection to +his going to Europe for a year if he had the money to spare. Jeff could +not refuse her joke, as he felt it, a certain applause, but he thought +it pretty rough that his mother should take part so decidedly against +him as she seemed to be doing. He had expected her to be angry with him, +but before they parted she had seemed to find some excuse for him, and +yet here she was siding against her own son in what he might very well +consider an unnatural way. If Jackson had been at home he would have +laid it to his charge; but he knew that Cynthia would have scorned +even to speak of him with his mother, and he knew too well his mother's +slight for Whitwell to suppose that he could have influenced her. +His mind turned in momentary suspicion to Westover. Had Westover, +he wondered, with a purpose to pay him up for it forming itself +simultaneously with his question, been setting his mother against him? +She might have written to Westover to get at the true inwardness of his +behavior, and Westover might have written her something that had made +her harden her heart against him. But upon reflection this seemed out of +character for both of them; and Jeff was thrown back upon his mother's +sober second thought of his misconduct for an explanation of her +coldness. He could not deny that he had grievously disappointed her in +several ways. But he did not see why he should not take a certain hint +from her letter, or construct a hint from it, at one with a vague intent +prompted by his own restless and curious vanity. Since he had parted +with Bessie Lynde, on terms of humiliation for her which must have been +anguish for him if he had ever loved her, or loved anything but his +power over her, he had remained in absolute ignorance of her. He had +not heard where she was or how she was; but now, as the few weeks before +Class Day and Commencement crumbled away, he began to wonder why she +made no sign. He believed that since she had been willing to go so +far to get him, she would not be willing to give him up so easily. The +thought of Cynthia had always intruded more or less effectively between +them, but now that this thought began to fade into the past, the thought +of Bessie began to grow out of it with no interposing shadow. + +However, Jeff was in no hurry. It was not passion that moved him, and +the mood in which he could play with the notion of getting back to his +flirtation with Bessie Lynde was pleasanter after the violence of recent +events than any renewal of strong sensations could be. He preferred to +loiter in this mood, and he was meantime much more comfortable than +he had been for a great while. He was rid of the disagreeable sense of +disloyalty to Cynthia, and he was rid of the stress of living up to her +conscience in various ways. He was rid of Bessie Lynde, too, and of the +trouble of forecasting and discounting her caprices. His thought turned +at times with a soft regret to hopes, disappointments, experiences +connected with neither, and now tinged with a tender melancholy, +unalloyed by shame or remorse. As he drew nearer to Class Day he had a +somewhat keener compunction for Cynthia and the hopes he had encouraged +her to build and had then dashed. But he was coming more and more to +regard it all as fatality; and if the chance that he counted upon to +bring him and Bessie together again had occurred he could have more +easily forgiven himself. + +One of the jays, who was spreading on rather a large scale, wanted Jeff +to spread with him, but he refused, because, as he said, he meant to +keep out of it altogether; and for the same reason he declined to take +part in the spread of a rather jay society he belonged to. In his secret +heart he trusted that some friendly fortuity might throw an invitation +to Beck Hall in his way, or at least a card for the Gym, which, if no +longer the place it had been, was still by no means jay. He got neither; +but as he felt all the joy of the June day in his young blood he +consoled himself very well with the dancing at one of the halls, where +the company happened that year to be openly, almost recklessly jay. Jeff +had some distinction among the fellows who enviously knew of his social +success during the winter, and especially of his affair with Bessie +Lynde; and there were some girls very pretty and very well dressed among +the crowd of girls who were neither. They were from remote parts of the +country, and in the charge of chaperons ignorant of the differences so +poignant to local society. Jeff went about among them, and danced with +the sisters and cousins of several men who seemed superior to the lost +condition of their kinswomen; these were nice fellows enough, but doomed +by their grinding, or digging, or their want of worldly wisdom, to a +place among the jays, when they really had some qualifications for a +nobler standing. He had a very good time, and he was enjoying himself +in his devotion to a lively young brunette whom he was making laugh with +his jokes about some of the others, when his eye was caught by a group +of ladies who advanced among the jays with something of that collective +intrepidity and individual apprehension characteristic of people in +slumming. They had the air of not knowing what might happen to them, +but the adventurous young Boston matron in charge of the girls kept on a +bold front behind her lorgnette, and swept the strange company she +found herself in with an unshrinking eye as she led her band among the +promenaders, and past the couples seated along the walls. She hesitated +a moment as her glance fell upon Jeff, and then she yielded, at whatever +risk, to the comfort of finding a known face among so many aliens. “Why, +Mr. Durgin!” she called out. “Bessie, here's Mr. Durgin,” and she turned +to the girl, who was in her train, as Jeff had perceived by something +finer than the senses from the first. + +He rose from the side of his brunette, whose brother was standing near, +and shook hands with the adventurous young matron, who seemed suddenly +much better acquainted with him than he had ever thought her, and with +Bessie Lynde; the others were New York girls, and the matron presented +him. “Are you going on?” she asked, and the vague challenge with the +smile that accompanied it was sufficient invitation for him. + +“Why, I believe so,” he said, and he turned to take leave of his pretty +brunette; but she had promptly vanished with her brother, and he was +spared the trouble of getting rid of her. He would have been equal to +much more for the sake of finding himself with Bessie Lynde again, whose +excitement he could see burning in her eyes, though her thick complexion +grew neither brighter nor paler. He did not know what quality of +excitement it might be, but he said, audaciously: “It's a good while +since we met!” and he was sensible that his audacity availed. + +“Is it?” she asked. He put himself at her side, and he did not leave her +again till he went to dress for the struggle around the Tree. He found +himself easily included in the adventurous young matron's party. He +had not the elegance of some of the taller and slenderer men in the +scholar's gown, but the cap became his handsome face. His affair with +Bessie Lynde had given him a certain note, and an adventurous young +matron, who was naturally a little indiscriminate, might very well have +been willing to let him go about with her party. She could not know how +impudent his mere presence was with reference to Bessie, and the girl +herself made no sign that could have enlightened her. She accepted +something more that her share of his general usefulness to the party; +she danced with him whenever he asked her, and she seemed not to scruple +to publish her affair with him in the openest manner. If he could have +stilled a certain shame for her which he felt, he would have thought he +was having the best kind of time. They made no account of by-gones in +their talk, but she had never been so brilliant, or prompted him to so +many of the effronteries which were the spirit of his humor. He thought +her awfully nice, with lots of sense; he liked her letting him come back +without any fooling or fuss, and he began to admire instead of despising +her for it. Decidedly it was, as she would have said, the chicquest sort +of thing. What was the use, anyway? He made up his mind. + +When he said he must go and dress for the Tree, he took leave of her +first, and he was aware of a vivid emotion, which was like regret in +her at parting with him. She said, Must he? She seemed to want to say +something more to him; while he was dismissing himself from the others, +he noticed that once or twice she opened her lips as if she were going +to speak. In the end she did nothing more important than to ask if he +had seen her brother; but after he had left the party he turned and saw +her following him with eyes that he fancied anxious and even frightened +in their gaze. + +The riot round the Tree roared itself through its wonted events. Class +after class of the undergraduates filed in and sank upon the grass below +the terraces and parterres of brilliantly dressed ladies within the +quadrangle of seats; the alumni pushed themselves together against the +wall of Holder Chapel; the men of the Senior class came last in their +grotesque variety of sweaters and second and third best clothes for the +scramble at the Tree. The regulation cheers tore from throats that grew +hoarser and hoarser, till every class and every favorite in the faculty +had been cheered. Then the signal-hat was flung into the air, and +the rush at the Tree was made, and the combat' for the flowers that +garlanded its burly waist began. + +Jeff's size and shape forbade him to try for the flowers from the +shoulders of others. He was one of a group of jays who set their backs +to the Tree, and fought away all comers except their own; they pulled +down every man not of their sort, and put up a jay, who stripped the +Tree of its flowers and flung them to his fellows below. As he was let +drop to the ground, Jeff snatched a handful of his spoil from him, and +made off with it toward the place where he had seen Bessie Lynde and her +party. But when he reached the place, shouldering and elbowing his way +through the press, she was no longer there. He saw her hat at a distance +through the crowd, where he did not choose to follow, and he stuffed the +flowers into his breast to give to her later. He expected to meet her +somewhere in the evening; if not, he would try to find her at her aunt's +house in town; failing that, he could send her the flowers, and trust +her for some sort of leading acknowledgment. + +He went and had a bath and dressed himself freshly, and then he went for +a walk in the still evening air. He was very hot from the battle which +had been fought over him, and which he had shared with all his strength, +and it seemed to him as if he could not get cool. He strolled far out +along Concord Avenue, beyond the expanses and ice-horses of Fresh Pond, +into the country toward Belmont, with his hat off and his head down. He +was very well satisfied, and he was smiling to himself at the ease of +his return to Bessie, and securely speculating upon the outcome of their +renewed understanding. + +He heard a vehicle behind him, rapidly driven, and he turned out for +it without looking around. Then suddenly he felt a fiery sting on his +forehead, and then a shower of stings swiftly following each other over +his head and face. He remembered stumbling, when he was a boy, into a +nest of yellow-jackets, that swarmed up around him and pierced him like +sparks of fire at every uncovered point. But he knew at the same time +that it was some one in the vehicle beside him who was lashing him over +the head with a whip. He bowed his head with his eyes shut and lunged +blindly out toward his assailant, hoping to seize him. + +But the horse sprang aside, and tore past him down the road. Jeff opened +his eyes, and through the blood that dripped from the cuts above them he +saw the wicked face of Alan Lynde looking back at him from the dogcart +where he sat with his man beside him. He brandished his broken whip in +the air, and flung it into the bushes. Jeff walked on, and picked it up, +before he turned aside to the pools of the marsh stretching on either +hand, and tried to stanch his hurts, and get himself into shape for +returning to town and stealing back to his lodging. He had to wait till +after dark, and watch his chance to get into the house unnoticed. + + + + +XLVIII + +The chum to whom Jeff confided the story of his encounter with a man he +left nameless inwardly thanked fortune that he was not that man; for +he knew him destined sooner or later to make such reparation for +the injuries he had inflicted as Jeff chose to exact. He tended him +carefully, and respected the reticence Jeff guarded concerning the whole +matter, even with the young doctor whom his friend called, and who kept +to himself his impressions of the nature of Jeff's injuries. + +Jeff lay in his darkened room, and burned with them, and with the +thoughts, guesses, purposes which flamed through his mind. Had she, that +girl, known what her brother meant to do? Had she wished him to think of +her in the moment of his punishment, and had she spoken of her brother +so that he might recall her, or had she had some ineffective impulse to +warn him against her brother when she spoke of him? + +He lay and raged in vain with his conjectures, and he did a thousand +imagined murders upon Lynde in revenge of his shame. + +Toward the end of the week, while his hurts were still too evident to +allow him to go out-of-doors before dark, he had a note from Westover +asking him to come in at once to see him. + +“Your brother Jackson,” Westover wrote, “reached Boston by the New York +train this morning, and is with me here. I must tell you I think he is +not at all well, but he does not know how sick he is, and so I forewarn +you. He wants to get on home, but I do not feel easy about letting him +make the rest of the journey alone. Some one ought to go with him. I +write not knowing whether you are still in Cambridge or not; or whether, +if you are, you can get away at this time. But I think you ought, and I +wish, at any rate, that you would come in at once and see Jackson. Then +we can settle what had best be done.” + +Jeff wrote back that he had been suffering with a severe attack of +erysipelas--he decided upon erysipelas for the time being, but he meant +to let Westover know later that he had been in a row--and the doctor +would not let him go out yet. He promised to come in as soon as he +possibly could. If Westover thought Jackson ought to be got home at +once, and was not fit to travel alone, he asked him to send a hospital +nurse with him. + +Westover replied by Jeff's messenger that it would worry and alarm +Jackson to be put in charge of a nurse; but that he would go home with +him, and they would start the next day. He urged Jeff to come and see +his brother if it was at all safe for him to do so. But if he could not, +Westover would give his mother a reassuring reason for his failure. + +Mrs. Durgin did not waste any anxiety for the sickness which prevented +Jeff from coming home with his brother. She said ironically that it must +be very bad, and she gave all her thought and care to Jackson. The +sick man rallied, as he prophesied he should, in his native air, and +celebrated the sense and science of the last doctor he had seen in +Europe, who told him that he had made a great gain, but he had better +hurry home as fast as he could, for he had got all the advantage he +could expect to have from his stay abroad, and now home air was the best +thing for him. + +It could not be known how much of this he believed; he had, at any rate, +the pathetic hopefulness of his malady; but his mother believed it all, +and she nursed him with a faith in his recovery which Whitwell confided +to Westover was about as much as he wanted to see, for one while. She +seemed to grow younger in the care of him, and to get back to herself, +more and more, from the facts of Jeff's behavior, which had aged and +broken her. She had to tell Jackson about it all, but he took it with +that indifference to the things of this world which the approach of +death sometimes brings, and in the light of his passivity it no longer +seemed to her so very bad. It was a relief to have Jackson say, Well, +perhaps it was for the best; and it was a comfort to see how he and +Cynthia took to each other; it was almost as if that dreadful trouble +had not been. She told Jackson what hard work she had had to make +Cynthia stay with her, and how the girl had consented to stay only until +Jeff came home; but she guessed, now that Jackson had got back, he could +make Cynthia see it all in another light, and perhaps it would all come +right again. She consulted him about Jeff's plan of going abroad, and +Jackson said it might be about as well; he should soon be around, and +he thought if Jeff went it would give Cynthia more of a chance to get +reconciled. After all, his mother suggested, a good many fellows behaved +worse than Jeff had done and still had made it up with the girls they +were engaged to; and Jackson gently assented. + +He did not talk with Cynthia about Jeff, out of that delicacy, or that +coldness, common to them both. Perhaps it was not necessary for them to +speak of him; perhaps they understood him aright in their understanding +of each other. + +Westover stayed on, day after day, thinking somehow that he ought to +wait till Jeff came. There were only a few other people in the hotel, +and these were of a quiet sort; they were not saddened by the presence +of a doomed man under the same roof, as gayer summer folks might have +been, and they were themselves no disturbance to him. + +He sat about with them on the veranda, and he made friends among +them, and they did what they could to encourage and console him in his +impatience to take up his old cares in the management of the hotel. The +Whitwells easily looked after the welfare of the guests, and Jackson was +so much better to every one's perception that Westover could honestly +write Jeff a good report of him. + +The report may have been so good that Jeff took the affair too easily. +It was a fortnight after Jackson's return to Lion's Head when he began +to fail so suddenly and alarmingly that Westover decided upon his +own responsibility to telegraph Jeff of his condition. But he had the +satisfaction of Whitwell's approval when he told him what he had done. + +“Of course, Jackson a'n't long for this world. Anybody but him and his +mother could see that; and now he's just melting away, as you might say. +I ha'n't liked his not carin' to work plantchette since he got back; +looked to me from the start that he kind of knowed that it wa'n't worth +while for him to trouble about a world that he'll know all about so +soon, anyways; and d' you notice he don't seem to care about Mars, +either? I've tried to wake him up on it two-three times, but you can't +git him to take an interest. I guess Jeff can't git here any too soon +on Jackson's account; but as far forth as I go, he couldn't git here too +late. I should like to take the top of his head off.” + +Westover had been in Whitwell's confidence since their first chance of +speech together. He now said: + +“I know it will be rather painful to you to have him here for some +reasons, but--” + +“You mean Cynthy? Well! I guess when Cynthy can't get along with the +sight of Jeff Durgin, she'll be a different girl from what she's ever +been before. If she's got to see that skunk ag'in, I guess this is about +the best time to do it.” + +It was Westover who drove to meet Jeff at the station, when he got his +despatch, naming the train he would take, and he found him looking very +well, and perhaps stouter than he had been. + +They left the station in silence, after their greeting and Jeff's +inquiries about Jackson. Jeff had taken the reins, and now he put them +with the whip in one hand, and pushed up his hat with the other, and +turned his face full upon Westover. “Notice anything in particular?” he +demanded. + +“No; yes--some slight marks.” + +“I guess that fellow fixed me up pretty well: paints black eyes, and +that kind of thing. I got to scrapping with a man, Class Day; we wanted +to settle a little business we began at the Tree, and he left his marks +on me. I meant to tell you the truth as soon as I could get at you; but +I had to say erysipelas in my letter. I guess, if you don't mind, we'll +let erysipelas stand, with the rest.” + +“I shouldn't have cared,” Westover said, “if you'd let it stand with +me.” + +“Oh, thank you,” Jeff returned. + +There could have been no show of affection at his meeting with Jackson +even if there had been any fact of it; that was not the law of their +life. But Jeff had always been a turbulent, rebellious, younger +brother, resentful of Jackson's control, too much his junior to have the +associations of an equal companionship in the past, and yet too near him +in age to have anything like a filial regard for him. They shook hands, +and each asked the other how he was, and then they seemed to have +done with each other. Jeff's mother kissed him in addition to the +handshaking, but made him feel her preoccupation with Jackson; she asked +him if he had hurried home on Jackson's account, and he promptly lied +her out of this anxiety. + +He shook hands with Cynthia, too, but it was across the barrier which +had not been lowered between them since they parted. He spoke to Jackson +about her, the day after he came home, when Jackson said he was feeling +unusually strong and well, and the two brothers had strolled out through +the orchard together. Now and then he gave the sick man his arm, and +when he wanted to sit down in a sunny place he spread the shawl he +carried for him. + +“I suppose mother's told you about Cynthy and me, Jackson?” he began. + +Jackson answered, with lack-lustre eyes, “Yes.” Presently he asked: +“What's become of the other girl?” + +“Damn her! I don't know what's become of her, and I don't care!” Jeff +exploded, furiously. + +“Then you don't care for her any more?” Jackson pursued, with the same +languid calm. + +“I never cared for her.” + +Jackson was silent, and the matter seemed to have faded out of his +mind. But it was keenly alive in Jeff's mind, and he was in the strange +necessity which men in the flush of life and health often feel of +seeking counsel of those who stand in the presence of death, as if their +words should have something of the mystical authority of the unknown +wisdom they are about to penetrate. + +“What I want to know is, what I am going to do about Cynthy?” + +“I don't know,” Jackson answered, vaguely, and he expressed by his +indirection the sense he must sometimes have had of his impending +fate--“I don't know what she's going to do, her or mother, either.” + +“Yes,” Jeff assented, “that's what I think of. And I'd do anything that +I could--that you thought was right.” + +Jackson apparently concentrated his mind upon the question by an effort. +“Do you care as much for Cynthy as you used to?” + +“Yes,” said Jeff, after a moment, “as much as I ever did; and more. But +I've been thinking, since the thing happened, that, if I'd cared for her +the way she did for me, it wouldn't have happened. Look here, Jackson! +You know I've never pretended to be like some men--like Mr. Westover, +for example--always looking out for the right and the wrong, and all +that. I didn't make myself, and I guess if the Almighty don't make me +go right it's because He don't want me to. But I have got a conscience +about Cynthy, and I'd be willing to help out a little if I knew how, +about her. The devil of it is, I've got to being afraid. I don't mean +that I'm not fit for her; any man's fit for any woman if he wants her +bad enough; but I'm afraid I sha'n't ever care for her in the right way. +That's the point. I've cared for just one woman in this world, and it +a'n't Cynthy, as far as I can make out. But she's gone, and I guess I +could coax Cynthy round again, and I could be what she wants me to be, +after this.” + +Jackson lay upon his shawl, looking up at the sky full of islands of +warm clouds in its sea of blue; he was silent so long that Jeff began to +think he had not been listening; he could not hear him breathe, and he +came forward to him quickly from the shadow of the tree where he sat. + +“Well?” Jackson whispered, turning his eyes upon him. + +“Well?” Jeff returned. + +“I guess you'd better let it alone,” said Jackson. + +“All right. That's what I think, too.” + + + + +XLIX. + +Jackson died a week later, and they buried him in the old family lot +in the farthest corner of the orchard. His mother and Cynthia put on +mourning for him, and they stood together by his open grave, Mrs. Durgin +leaning upon her son's arm and the girl upon her father's. The women +wept quietly, but Jeff's eyes were dry, though his face was discharged +of all its prepotent impudence. Westover, standing across the grave +from him, noticed the marks on his forehead that he said were from his +scrapping, and wondered what really made them. He recognized the spot +where they were standing as that where the boy had obeyed the law of his +nature and revenged the stress put upon him for righteousness. Over the +stone of the nearest grave Jeff had shown a face of triumphant derision +when he pelted Westover with apples. The painter's mind fell into a +chaos of conjecture and misgiving, so that he scarcely took in the words +of the composite service which the minister from the Union Chapel at the +Huddle read over the dead. + +Some of the guests from the hotel came to the funeral, but others who +were not in good health remained away, and there was a general sense +among them, which imparted itself to Westover, that Jackson's dying so, +at the beginning of the season, was not a fortunate incident. As he sat +talking with Jeff at a corner of the piazza late in the afternoon, Frank +Whitwell came up to them and said there were some people in the office +who had driven over from another hotel to see about board, but they had +heard there was sickness in the house, and wished to talk with him. + +“I won't come,” said Jeff. + +“They're not satisfied with what I've said,” the boy urged. “What shall +I tell them?” + +“Tell them to-go to the devil,” said Jeff, and when Frank Whitwell made +off with this message for delivery in such decent terms as he could +imagine for it, Jeff said, rather to himself than to Westover, “I don't +see how we're going to run this hotel with that old family lot down +there in the orchard much longer.” + +He assumed the air of full authority at Lion's Head; and Westover +felt the stress of a painful conjecture in regard to the Whitwells +intensified upon him from the moment he turned away from Jackson's +grave. + +Cynthia and her father had gone back to their own house as soon as +Jeff returned, and though the girl came home with Mrs. Durgin after the +funeral, and helped her in their common duties through the afternoon and +evening, Westover saw her taking her way down the hill with her brother +when the long day's work was over. Jeff saw her too; he was sitting +with Westover at the office door smoking, and he was talking of the +Whitwells. + +“I suppose they won't stay,” he said, “and I can't expect it; but I +don't know what mother will do, exactly.” + +At the same moment Whitwell came round the corner of the hotel from the +barn, and approached them: “Jeff, I guess I better tell you straight off +that we're goin', the children and me.” + +“All right, Mr. Whitwell,” said Jeff, with respectful gravity; “I was +afraid of it.” + +Westover made a motion to rise, but Whitwell laid a detaining hand upon +his knee. “There ain't anything so private about it, so far as I know.” + +“Don't go, Mr. Westover,” said Jeff, and Westover remained. + +“We a'n't a-goin' to leave you in the lurch, and we want you should take +your time, especially Mis' Durgin. But the sooner the better. Heigh?” + +“Yes, I understand that, Mr. Whitwell; I guess mother will miss you, +but if you must go, you must.” The two men remained silent a moment, and +then Jeff broke out passionately, rising and flinging his cigar away: +“I wish I could go, instead! That would be the right way, and I guess +mother would like it full as well. Do you see any way to manage it?” He +put his foot up in his chair, and dropped his elbow on his knee, with +his chin propped in his hand. Westover could see that he meant what he +was saying. “If there was any way, I'd do it. I know what you think of +me, and I should be just like you, in your place. I don't feel right to +turn you out here, I don't, Mr. Whitwell, and yet if I stay, I've got to +do it. What's the reason I can't go?” + +“You can't,” said Whitwell, “and that's all about it. We shouldn't let +you, if you could. But I a'n't surprised you feel the way you do,” he +added, unsparingly. “As you say, I should feel just so myself if I was +in your place. Well, goodnight, Mr. Westover.” + +Whitwell turned and slouched down the hill, leaving the painter to the +most painful moment he had known with Jeff Durgin, and nearer sympathy. +“That's all right, Mr. Westover,” Jeff said, “I don't blame him.” + +He remained in a constraint from which he presently broke with mocking +hilarity when Jombateeste came round the corner of the house, as if +he had been waiting for Whitwell to be gone, and told Jeff he must get +somebody else to look after the horses. + +“Why don't you wait and take the horses with you, Jombateeste?” he +inquired. “They'll be handing in their resignation, the next thing. Why +not go altogether?” + +The little Canuck paused, as if uncertain whether he was made the +object of unfriendly derision or not, and looked at Westover for help. +Apparently he decided to chance it in as bitter an answer as he could +invent. “The 'oss can't 'elp 'imself, Mr. Durgin. 'E stay. But you don' +hown EVERYBODY.” + +“That's so, Jombateeste,” said Jeff. “That's a good hit. It makes me +feel awfully. Have a cigar?” The Canuck declined with a dignified bow, +and Jeff said: “You don't smoke any more? Oh, I see! It's my tobacco +you're down on. What's the matter, Jombateeste? What are you going away +for?” Jeff lighted for himself the cigar the Canuck had refused, and +smoked down upon the little man. + +“Mr. W'itwell goin',” Jombateeste said, a little confused and daunted. + +“What's Mr. Whitwell going for?” + +“You hask Mr. W'itwell.” + +“All right. And if I can get him to stay will you stay too, Jombateeste? +I don't like to see a rat leaving a ship; the ship's sure to sink, if +he does. How do you suppose I'm going to run Lion's Head without you to +throw down hay to the horses? It will be ruin to me, sure, Jombateeste. +All the guests know how you play on the pitchfork out there, and they'll +leave in a body if they hear you've quit. Do say you'll stay, and I'll +reduce your wages one-half on the spot.” + +Jombateeste waited to hear no more injuries. He said: “You'll don' got +money enough, Mr. Durgin, by gosh! to reduce my wages,” and he started +down the hill toward Whitwell's house with as great loftiness as could +comport with a down-hill gait and his stature. + +“Well, I seem to be getting it all round, Mr. Westover,” said Jeff. +“This must make you feel good. I don't know but I begin to believe +there's a God in Israel, myself.” + +He walked away without saying good-night, and Westover went to bed +without the chance of setting himself right. In the morning, when he +came down to breakfast, and stopped at the desk to engage a conveyance +for the station from Frank Whitwell the boy forestalled him with a grave +face. “You don't know about Mrs. Durgin?” + +“No; what about her?” + +“Well, we can't tell exactly. Father thinks it's a shock; Jombateeste +gone over to Lovewell for the doctor. Cynthia's with her. It seemed to +come on in the night.” + +He spoke softly, that no one else might hear; but by noon the fact that +Mrs. Durgin had been stricken with paralysis was all over the place. The +gloom cast upon the opening season by Jackson's death was deepened among +the guests. Some who had talked of staying through July went away +that day. But under Cynthia's management the housekeeping was really +unaffected by Mrs. Durgin's calamity, and the people who stayed found +themselves as comfortable as ever. Jeff came fully into the hotel +management, and in their business relation Cynthia and he were +continually together; there was no longer a question of the Whitwells +leaving him; even Jombateeste persuaded himself to stay, and Westover +felt obliged to remain at least till the present danger in Mrs. Durgin's +case was past. + +With the first return of physical strength, Mrs. Durgin was impatient to +be seen about the house, and to retrieve the season that her affliction +had made so largely a loss. The people who had become accustomed to +it stayed on, and the house filled up as she grew better, but even the +sight of her in a wheeled chair did not bring back the prosperity of +other years. She lamented over it with a keen and full perception of the +fact, but in a cloudy association of it with the joint future of Jeff +and Cynthia. + +One day, after Mrs. Durgin had declared that she did not know what they +were to do, if things kept on as they were going, Whitwell asked his +daughter: + +“Do you suppose she thinks you and Jeff have made it up again?” + +“I don't know,” said the girl, with a troubled voice, “and I don't know +what to do about it. It don't seem as if I could tell her, and yet it's +wrong to let her go on.” + +“Why didn't he tell her?” demanded her father. “'Ta'n't fair his leavin' +it to you. But it's like him.” + +The sick woman's hold upon the fact weakened most when she was tired. +When she was better, she knew how it was with them. Commonly it was when +Cynthia had got her to bed for the night that she sent for Jeff, and +wished to ask him what he was going to do. “You can't expect Cynthy to +stay here another winter helpin' you, with Jackson away. You've got to +either take her with you, or else come here yourself. Give up your last +year in college, why don't you? I don't want you should stay, and I +don't know who does. If I was in Cynthia's place, I'd let you work off +your own conditions, now you've give up the law. She'll kill herself, +tryin' to keep you along.” + +Sometimes her speech became so indistinct that no one but Cynthia could +make it out; and Jeff, listening with a face as nearly discharged as +might be of its laughing irony, had to turn to Cynthia for the word +which no one else could catch, and which the stricken woman remained +distressfully waiting for her to repeat to him, with her anxious eyes +upon the girl's face. He was dutifully patient with all his mother's +whims. He came whenever she sent for him, and sat quiet under the +severities with which she visited all his past unworthiness. “Who you +been hectorin' now, I should like to know,” she began on him one evening +when he came at her summons. “Between you and Fox, I got no peace of my +life. Where is the dog?” + +“Fox is all right, mother,” Jeff responded. “You're feeling a little +better to-night, a'n't you?” + +“I don't know; I can't tell,” she returned, with a gleam of intelligence +in her eye. Then she said: “I don't see why I'm left to strangers all +the time.” + +“You don't call Cynthia a stranger, do you, mother?” he asked, +coaxingly. + +“Oh--Cynthy!” said Mrs. Durgin, with a glance as of surprise at seeing +her. “No, Cynthy's all right. But where's Jackson and your father? If +I've told them not to be out in the dew once, I've told 'em a hundred +times. Cynthy'd better look after her housekeepin' if she don't want the +whole place to run behind, and not a soul left in the house. What time +o' year is it now?” she suddenly asked, after a little weary pause. + +“It's the last of August, mother.” + +“Oh,” she sighed, “I thought it was the beginnin' of May. Didn't you +come up here in May?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, then--Or, mebbe that's one o' them tormentin' dreams; they do +pester so! What did you come for?” + +Jeff was sitting on one side of her bed and Cynthia on the other: She +was looking at the sufferer's face, and she did not meet the glance of +amusement which Jeff turned upon her at being so fairly cornered. “Well, +I don't know,” he said. “I thought you might like to see me.” + +“What 'd he come for?”--the sick woman turned to Cynthia. + +“You'd better tell her,” said the girl, coldly, to Jeff. “She won't be +satisfied till you do. She'll keep coming back to it.” + +“Well, mother,” said Jeff, still with something of his hardy amusement, +“I hadn't been acting just right, and I thought I'd better tell Cynthy.” + +“You better let the child alone. If I ever catch you teasin' them +children again, I'll make Jackson shoot Fox.” + +“All right, mother,” said Jeff. + +She moved herself restively in bed. “What's this,” she demanded of her +son, “that Whitwell's tellin' about you and Cynthy breakin' it off?” + +“Well, there was talk of that,” said Jeff, passing his hand over his +lips to keep back the smile that was stealing to them. + +“Who done it?” + +Cynthia kept her eyes on Jeff, who dropped his to his mother's face. +“Cynthy did it; but I guess I gave her good enough reason.” + +“About that hussy in Boston? She was full more to blame than what you +was. I don't see what Cynthy wanted to do it for on her account.” + +“I guess Cynthy was right.” + +Mrs. Durgin's speech had been thickening more and more. She now said +something that Jeff could not understand. He looked involuntarily at +Cynthia. + +“She says she thinks I was hasty with you,” the girl interpreted. + +Jeff kept his eyes on hers, but he answered to his mother: “Not any more +than I deserved. I hadn't any right to expect that she would stand it.” + +Again the sick woman tried to say something. Jeff made out a few +syllables, and, after his mother had repeated her words, he had to look +to Cynthia for help. + +“She wants to know if it's all right now.” + +“What shall I say?” asked Jeff, huskily. + +“Tell her the truth.” + +“What is the truth?” + +“That we haven't made it up.” + +Jeff hesitated, and then said: “Well, not yet, mother,” and he bent an +entreating look upon Cynthia which she could not feel was wholly for +himself. “I--I guess we can fix it, somehow. I behaved very badly to +Cynthia.” + +“No, not to me!” the girl protested in an indignant burst. + +“Not to that little scalawag, then!” cried Jeff. “If the wrong wasn't to +you, there wasn't any wrong.” + +“It was to you!” Cynthia retorted. + +“Oh, I guess I can stand it,” said Jeff, and his smile now came to his +lips and eyes. + +His mother had followed their quick parley with eager looks, as if she +were trying to keep her intelligence to its work concerning them. The +effort seemed to exhaust her, and when she spoke again her words were +so indistinct that even Cynthia could not understand them till she had +repeated them several times. + +Then the girl was silent, while the invalid kept an eager look upon her. +She seemed to understand that Cynthia did not mean to speak; and the +tears came into her eyes. + +“Do you want me to know what she said?” asked Jeff, respectfully, +reverently almost. + +Cynthia said, gently: “She says that then you must show you didn't mean +any harm to me, and that you cared for me, all through, and you didn't +care for anybody else.” + +“Thank you,” said Jeff, and he turned to his mother. “I'll do everything +I can to make Cynthy believe that, mother.” + +The girl broke into tears and went out of the room. She sent in the +night-watcher, and then Jeff took leave of his mother with an unwonted +kiss. + +Into the shadow of a starlit night he saw the figure he had been waiting +for glide out of the glitter of the hotel lights. He followed it down +the road. + +“Cynthia!” he called; and when he came up with her he asked: “What's the +reason we can't make it true? Why can't you believe what mother wants me +to make you?” + +Cynthia stopped, as her wont was when she wished to speak seriously. “Do +you ask that for my sake or hers?” + +“For both your sakes.” + +“I thought so. You ought to have asked it for your own sake, Jeff, and +then I might have been fool enough to believe you. But now--” + +She started swiftly down the hill again, and this time he did not try to +follow her. + + + + +L. + +Mrs. Durgin's speech never regained the measure of clearness it had +before; no one but Cynthia could understand her, and often she could +not. The doctor from Lovewell surmised that she had sustained another +stroke, lighter, more obscure than the first, and it was that which had +rendered her almost inarticulate. The paralysis might have also affected +her brain, and silenced her thoughts as well as her words. Either she +believed that the reconciliation between Jeff and Cynthia had taken +place, or else she could no longer care. She did not question them +again, but peacefully weakened more and more. Near the end of September +she had a third stroke, and from this she died. + +The day after the funeral Jeff had a talk with Whitwell, and opened his +mind to him. + +“I'm going over to the other side, and I shan't be back before spring, +or about time to start the season here. What I want to know is whether, +if I'm out of the house, and not likely to come back, you'll stay here +and look after the place through the winter. It hasn't been a good +season, but I guess I can afford to make it worth your while if you look +at it as a matter of business.” + +Whitwell leaned forward and took a straw into his mouth from the golden +wall of oat sheaves in the barn where they were talking. A soft rustling +in the mow overhead marked the remote presence of Jombateeste, who was +getting forward the hay for the horses, pushing it toward the holes +where it should fall into their racks. + +“I should want to think about it,” said Whitwell. “I do' know as +Cynthy'd care much about stayin'--or Frank.” + +“How long do you want to think about it?” Jeff demanded, ignoring the +possible wishes of Cynthia and Frank. + +“I guess I could let you know by night.” + +“All right,” said Jeff. + +He was turning away, when Whitwell remarked: + +“I don't know as I should want to stay without I could have somebody I +could depend on, with me, to look after the hosses. Frank wouldn't want +to.” + +“Who'd you like?” + +“Well--Jombateeste.” + +“Ask him.” + +Whitwell called to the Canuck, and he came forward to the edge of the +mow, and stood, fork in hand, looking down. + +“Want to stay here this winter and look after the horses, Jombateeste?” + Whitwell asked. + +“Nosseh!” said the Canuck, with a misliking eye on Jeff. + +“I mean, along with me,” Whitwell explained. “If I conclude to stay, +will you? Jeff's goin' abroad.” + +“I guess I stay,” said Jombateeste. + +“Don't strain yourself, Jombateeste,” said Jeff, with malevolent +derision. + +“Not for you, Jeff Dorrgin,” returned the Canuck. “I strain myself till +I bust, if I want.” + +Jeff sneered to Whitwell: “Well, then, the most important point is +settled. Let me know about the minor details as soon as you can.” + +“All right.” + +Whitwell talked the matter over with his children at supper that +evening. Jeff had made him a good offer, and he had the winter before +him to provide for. + +“I don't know what deviltry he's up to,” he said in conclusion. + +Frank looked to his sister for their common decision. “I am going to try +for a school,” she said, quietly. “It's pretty late, but I guess I can +get something. You and Frank had better stay.” + +“And you don't feel as if it was kind of meechin', our takin' up with +his offer, after what's--” Whitwell delicately forbore to fill out his +sentence. + +“You are doing the favor, father,” said the girl. “He knows that, and +I guess he wouldn't know where to look if you refused. And, after all, +what's happened now is as much my doing as his.” + +“I guess that's something so,” said Whitwell, with a long sigh of +relief. “Well, I'm glad you can look at it in that light, Cynthy. It's +the way the feller's built, I presume, as much as anything.” + +His daughter waived the point. “I shouldn't feel just right if none of +us stayed in the old place. I should feel as if we had turned our backs +on Mrs. Durgin.” + +Her eyes shone, and her father said: “Well, I guess that's so, come to +think of it. She's been like a mother to you, this past year, ha'n't +she? And it must have come pootty hard for her, sidin' ag'in' Jeff. But +she done it.” + +The girl turned her head away. They were sitting in the little, +low keeping-room of Whitwell's house, and her father had his hat on +provisionally. Through the window they could see the light of the +lantern at the office door of the hotel, whose mass was lost in the dark +above and behind the lamp. It was all very still outside. + +“I declare,” Whitwell went on, musingly, “I wisht Mr. Westover was +here.” + +Cynthia started, but it was to ask: “Do you want I should help you with +your Latin, Frank?” + +Whitwell came back an hour later and found them still at their books. He +told them it was all arranged; Durgin was to give up the place to him +in a week, and he was to surrender it again when Jeff came back in the +spring. In the mean time things were to remain as they were; after he +was gone, they could all go and live at Lion's Head if they chose. + +“We'll see,” said Cynthia. “I've been thinking that might be the best +way, after all. I might not get a school, it's so late.” + +“That's so,” her father assented. “I declare,” he added, after a +moment's muse, “I felt sorry for the feller settin' up there alone, with +nobody to do for him but that old thing he's got in. She can't cook any +more than--” He desisted for want of a comparison, and said: “Such a +lookin' table, too.” + +“Do you think I better go and look after things a little?” Cynthia +asked. + +“Well, you no need to,” said her father. He got down the planchette, and +labored with it, while his children returned to Frank's lessons. + +“Dumn 'f I can make the thing work,” he said to himself at last. “I +can't git any of 'em up. If Jackson was here, now!” + +Thrice a day Cynthia went up to the hotel and oversaw the preparation of +Jeff's meals and kept taut the slack housekeeping of the old Irish woman +who had remained as a favor, after the hotel closed, and professed to +have lost the chance of a place for the winter by her complaisance. +She submitted to Cynthia's authority, and tried to make interest for an +indefinite stay by sudden zeal and industry, and the last days of Jeff +in the hotel were more comfortable than he openly recognized. He left +the care of the building wholly to Whitwell, and shut himself up in the +old farm parlor with the plans for a new hotel which he said he meant to +put up some day, if he could ever get rid of the old one. He went once +to Lovewell, where he renewed the insurance, and somewhat increased it; +and he put a small mortgage on the property. He forestalled the slow +progress of the knowledge of others' affairs, which, in the country, is +as sure as it is slow, and told Whitwell what he had done. He said he +wanted the mortgage money for his journey, and the insurance money, if +he could have the luck to cash up by a good fire, to rebuild with. + +Cynthia seldom met him in her comings and goings, but if they met they +spoke on the terms of their boy and girl associations, and with no +approach through resentment or tenderness to the relation that was ended +between them. She saw him oftener than at any other time setting off +on the long tramps he took through the woods in the afternoons. He was +always alone, and, so far as any one knew, his wanderings had no object +but to kill the time which hung heavy on his hands during the fortnight +after his mother's death, before he sailed. It might have seemed strange +that he should prefer to pass the days at Lion's Head after he had +arranged for the care of the place with Whitwell, and Whitwell always +believed that he stayed in the hope of somehow making up with Cynthia. + +One day, toward the very last, Durgin found himself pretty well fagged +in the old pulp-mill clearing on the side of Lion's Head, which still +belonged to Whitwell, and he sat down on a mouldering log there to rest. +It had always been a favorite picnic ground, but the season just past +had known few picnics, and it was those of former years that had left +their traces in rusty sardine-cans and broken glass and crockery on the +border of the clearing, which was now almost covered with white moss. +Jeff thought of the day when he lurked in the hollow below with Fox, +while Westover remained talking with Whitwell. He thought of the picnic +that Mrs. Marven had embittered for him, and he thought of the last time +that he had been there with Westover, when they talked of the Vostrands. + +Life had, so far, not been what he meant it, and just now it occurred to +him that he might not have wholly made it what it had been. It seemed to +him that a good many other people had come in and taken a hand in making +his own life what it had been; and if he had meddled with theirs more +than he was wanted, it was about an even thing. As far as he could make +out, he was a sort of ingredient in the general mixture. He had probably +done his share of the flavoring, but he had had very little to do with +the mixing. There were different ways of looking at the thing. Westover +had his way, but it struck Jeff that it put too much responsibility on +the ingredient, and too little on the power that chose it. He believed +that he could prove a clear case in his own favor, as far as the +question of final justice was concerned, but he had no complaints to +make. Things had fallen out very much to his mind. He was the Landlord +at Lion's Head, at last, with the full right to do what he pleased with +the place, and with half a year's leisure before him to think it over. +He did not mean to waste the time while he was abroad; if there was +anything to be learned anywhere about keeping a summer hotel, he +was going to learn it; and he thought the summer hotel could be +advantageously studied in its winter phases in the mild climates of +Southern Europe. He meant to strike for the class of Americans who +resorted to those climates; to divine their characters and to please +their tastes. + +He unconsciously included Cynthia in his scheme of inquiry; he had been +used so long to trust to her instincts and opinions, and to rely upon +her help, and he realized that she was no longer in his life with +something like the shock a man experiences when the loss of a limb, +which continues a part of his inveterate consciousness, is brought to +his sense by some mechanical attempt to use it. But even in this pang he +did not regret that all was over between them. He knew now that he had +never cared for her as he had once thought, and on her account, if not +his own, he was glad their engagement was broken. A soft melancholy for +his own disappointment imparted itself to his thoughts of Cynthia. He +felt truly sorry for her, and he truly admired and respected her. He was +in a very lenient mood toward every one, and he went so far in thought +toward forgiving his enemies that he was willing at least to pardon all +those whom he had injured. A little rustling in the underbrush across +the clearing caught his quick ear, and he looked up to see Jombateeste +parting the boughs of the young pines on its edge and advancing into +the open with a gun on his shoulder. He called to him, cheerily: “Hello, +John! Any luck?” + +Jombateeste shook his head. “Nawthing.” He hesitated. + +“What are you after?” + +“Partridge,” Jombateeste ventured back. + +Jeff could not resist the desire to scoff which always came upon him at +sight of the Canuck. “Oh, pshaw! Why don't you go for woodchucks? They +fly low, and you can hit them on the wing, if you can't sneak on 'em +sitting.” + +Jombateeste received his raillery in dignified silence, and turned +back into the woods again. He left Durgin in heightened good-humor with +himself and with the world, which had finally so well adapted itself to +his desires and designs. + +Jeff watched his resentful going with a grin, and then threw himself +back on the thick bed of dry moss where he had been sitting, and watched +the clouds drifting across the space of blue which the clearing opened +overhead. His own action reminded him of Jackson, lying in the orchard +and looking up at the sky. He felt strangely at one with him, and he +experienced a tenderness for his memory which he had not known before. +Jackson had been a good man; he realized that with a curious sense +of novelty in the reflection; he wondered what the incentives and the +objects of such men as Jackson and Westover were, anyway. Something +like grief for his brother came upon him; not such grief as he had felt, +passionately enough, though tacitly, for his mother, but a regret for +not having shown Jackson during his life that he could appreciate his +unselfishness, though he could not see the reason or the meaning of it. +He said to himself, in their safe remoteness from each other, that he +wished he could do something for Jackson. He wondered if in the course +of time he should get to be something like him. He imagined trying. + +He heard sounds again in the edge of the clearing, but he decided that +it was that fool Jombateeste coming back; and when steps approached +softly and hesitantly across the moss, he did not trouble himself to +take his eyes from the clouds. He was only vexed to have his revery +broken in upon. + +A voice that was not Jombateeste's spoke: “I say! Can you tell me the +way to the Brooker Institute, or to the road down the mountain?” + +Jeff sat suddenly bolt-upright; in another moment he jumped to his +feet. The Brooker Institute was a branch of the Keeley Cure recently +established near the Huddle, and this must be a patient who had wandered +from it, on one of the excursions the inmates made with their guardians, +and lost his way. This was the fact that Jeff realized at the first +glance he gave the man. The next he recognized that the man was Alan +Lynde. + +“Oh, it's you,” he said, quite simply. He felt so cruelly the hardship +of his one unforgiven enemy's coming upon him just when he had resolved +to be good that the tears came into his eyes. Then his rage seemed to +swell up in him like the rise of a volcanic flood. “I'm going to kill +you!” he, roared, and he launched himself upon Lynde, who stood dazed. + +But the murder which Jeff meant was not to be so easily done. Lynde had +not grown up in dissolute idleness without acquiring some of the arts of +self-defence which are called manly. He met Jeff's onset with remembered +skill and with the strength which he had gained in three months of the +wholesome regimen of the Brooker Institute. He had been sent there, +not by Dr. Lacy's judgment, but by his despair, and so far the Cure had +cured. He felt strong and fresh, and the hate which filled Jeff at sight +of him steeled his shaken nerves and reinforced his feebler muscles, +too. + +He made a desperate fight where he could not hope for mercy, and kept +himself free of his powerful foe, whom he fought round and foiled, if he +could not hurt him. Jeff never knew of the blows Lynde got in upon him; +he had his own science, too, but he would not employ it. He wanted to +crash through Lynde's defence and lay hold of him and crush the life out +of him. + +The contest could not have lasted long at the best; but before Lynde was +worn out he caught his heel in an old laurel root, and while he whirled +to recover his footing Jeff closed in upon him, caught him by the +middle, flung him down upon the moss, and was kneeling on his breast +with both hands at his throat. + +He glared down into his enemy's face, and suddenly it looked pitifully +little and weak, like a girl's face, a child's. + +Sometimes, afterward, it seemed to him that he forbore because at that +instant he saw Jombateeste appear at the edge of the clearing and come +running upon them. At other times he had the fancy that his action was +purely voluntary, and that, against the logic of his hate and habit of +his life, he had mercy upon his enemy. He did not pride himself upon +it; he rather humbled himself before the fact, which was accomplished +through his will, and not by it, and remained a mystery he did not try +to solve. + +He took his hands from Lynde's throat and his knees off his breast. +“Get up,” he said; and when Lynde stood trembling on his feet he said to +Jombateeste: “Show this man the way to the Brooker Institute. I'll take +your gun home for you,” and it was easy for him to detach the piece from +the bewildered Canuck's grasp. “Go! And if you stop, or even let him +look back, I'll shoot him. Quick!” + + + + +LI. + +The day after Thanksgiving, when Westover was trying to feel well after +the turkey and cranberry and cider which a lady had given him at a +consciously old-fashioned Thanksgiving dinner, but not making it out +sufficiently to be able to work, he was astonished to receive a visit +from Whitwell. + +“Well, sir,” said the philosopher, without giving himself pause for the +exchange of reflections upon his presence in Boston, which might have +been agreeable to him on a less momentous occasion. “It's all up with +Lion's Head.” + +“What do you mean?” demanded Westover, with his mind upon the mountain, +which he electrically figured in an incredible destruction. + +“She's burnt. Burnt down the day before yist'd'y aft'noon. A'n't hardly +a stick of her left. Ketehed Lord knows how, from the kitchen chimney, +and a high northwest wind blowin', that ca'd the sparks to the barn, +and set fire to that, too. Hasses gone; couldn't get round to 'em; only +three of us there, and mixed up so about the house till it was so late +the critters wouldn't come out. Folks from over Huddle way see the +blaze, and helped all they could; but it wa'n't no use. I guess all we +saved, about, was the flag-pole.” + +“But you're all right yourselves? Cynthia.” + +“Well, there was our misfortune,” said Whitwell, while Westover's heart +stopped in a mere wantonness of apprehension. “If she'd be'n there, +it might ha' be'n diff'ent. We might ha' had more sense; or she would, +anyway. But she was over to Lovewell stockin' up for Thanksgivin', and I +had to make out the best I could, with Frank and Jombateeste. Why, +that Canuck didn't seem to have no more head on him than a hen. I was +disgusted; but Cynthy wouldn't let me say anything to him, and I d' know +as 't 'ould done any good, myself. We've talked it all over in every +light, ever since; guess we've set up most the time talkin', and nothin' +would do her but I should come down and see you before I took a single +step about it.” + +“How--step about what?” asked Westover, with a remote sense of hardship +at being brought in, tempered by the fact that it was Cynthia who had +brought him in. + +“Why, that devil,” said Whitwell, and Westover knew that he meant Jeff, +“went and piled on all the insurance he could pile on, before he left; +and I don't know what to do about it.” + +“I should think the best thing was to collect the insurance,” Westover +suggested, distractedly. + +“It a'n't so easy as what that comes to,” said Whitwell. “I couldn't +collect the insurance; and here's the point, anyway. When a hotel's made +a bad season, and she's fully insured, she's pootty certain to burn +up some time in the winter. Everybody knows that comical devil wanted +lion's Head to burn up so 't he could build new, and I presume there +a'n't a man, woman, or child anywhere round but what believes I set her +on fire. Hired to do it. Now, see? Jeff off in Europe; daytime; no lives +lost; prop'ty total loss 's a clear case. Heigh? I tell you, I'm afraid +I've got trouble ahead.” + +Westover tried to protest, to say something in derision or defiance; +but he was shaken himself, and he ended by getting his hat and coat; +Whitwell had kept his own on, in the excitement. “We'll go out and see +a lawyer. A friend of mine; it won't cost you anything.” He added this +assurance at a certain look of reluctance that came into Whitwell's +face, and that left it as soon as he had spoken. Whitwell glanced round +the studio even cheerily. “Who'd ha' thought,” he said, fastening upon +the study which Westover had made of Lion's head the winter before, +“that the old place would 'a' gone so soon?” He did not mean the +mountain which he was looking at, but the hotel that was present to his +mind's eye; and Westover perceived as he had not before that to Whitwell +the hotel and not the mountain was Lion's Head. + +He remembered to ask now where Whitwell had left his family, and +Whitwell said that Frank and Cynthia were at home in his own house with +Jombateeste; but he presumed he could not get back to them now before +the next day. He refused to be interested in any of the aspects of +Boston which Westover casually pointed out, but when they had seen the +lawyer he came forth a new man, vividly interested in everything. The +lawyer had been able to tell them that though the insurance companies +would look sharply into the cause of the fire, there was no probability, +hardly a possibility, that they would inculpate him, and he need give +himself no anxiety about the affair. + +“There's one thing, though,” Whitwell said to Westover when they got out +upon the street. “Hadn't I ought to let Jeff know?” + +“Yes, at once. You'd better cable him. Have you got his address?” + +Whitwell had it, and he tasted all the dramatic quality of sending +word to Jeff, which he would receive in Florence an hour after it left +Boston. “I did hope I could ha' cabled once to Jackson while he was +gone,” he said, regretfully, “but, unless we can fix up a wire with the +other world, I guess I shan't ever do it now. I suppose Jackson's still +hangin' round Mars, some'res.” + +He had a sectarian pride in the beauty of the Spiritual Temple which +Westover walked him by on his way to see Trinity Church and the Fine +Arts Museum, and he sorrowed that he could not attend a service' +there. But he was consoled by the lunch which he had with Westover at +a restaurant where it was served in courses. “I presume this is what +Jeff's goin' to give 'em at Lion's Head when he gits it goin' again.” + +“How is it he's in Florence?” it occurred to Westover to ask. “I thought +he was going to Nice for the winter.” + +“I don't know. That's the address he give in his last letter,” said +Whitwell. “I'll be glad when I've done with him for good and all. He's +all kinds of a devil.” + +It was in Westover's mind to say that he wished the Whitwells had never +had anything to do with Durgin after his mother's death. He had felt it +a want of delicacy in them that they had been willing to stay on in his +employ, and his ideal of Cynthia had suffered a kind of wound from +what must have been her decision in the matter. He would have expected +something altogether different from her pride, her self-respect. But +he now merely said: “Yes, I shall be glad, too. I'm afraid he's a bad +fellow.” + +His words seemed to appeal to Whitwell's impartiality. “Well, I d' know +as I should say bad, exactly. He's a mixture.” + +“He's a bad mixture,” said Westover. + +“Well, I guess you're partly right there,” Whitwell admitted, with a +laugh. After a dreamy moment he asked: “Ever hear anything more about +that girl here in Boston?” + +Westover knew that he meant Bessie Lynde. “She's abroad somewhere, with +her aunt.” + +Whitwell had not taken any wine; apparently he was afraid of forming +instantly the habit of drink if he touched it; but he tolerated +Westover's pint of Zinfandel, and he seemed to warm sympathetically to a +greater confidence as the painter made away with it. “There's one thing +I never told Cynthy yet; well, Jombateeste didn't tell me himself till +after Jeff was gone; and then, thinks I, what's the use? But I guess you +had better know.” + +He leaned forward across the table, and gave Jombateeste's story of the +encounter between Jeff and Alan Lynde in the clearing. “Now what do you +suppose was the reason Jeff let up on the feller? Of course, he meant +to choke the life out of him, and his just ketchin' sight of +Jombateeste--do you believe that was enough to stop him, when he'd +started in for a thing like that? Or what was it done it?” + +Westover listened with less thought of the fact itself than of another +fact that it threw light upon. It was clear to him now that the +Class-Day scrapping which had left its marks upon Jeff's face was with +Lynde, and that when Jeff got him in his power he was in such a fury for +revenge that no mere motive of prudence could have arrested him. In both +events, it must have been Bessie Lynde that was the moving cause; but +what was it that stayed Jeff in his vengeance? + +“Let him up, and let him walk away, you say?” he demanded of Whitwell. + +Whitwell nodded. “That's what Jombateeste said. Said Jeff said if he let +the feller look back he'd shoot him. But he didn't haf to.” + +“I can't make it out,” Westover sighed. + +“It's been too much for me,” Whitwell said. “I told Jombateeste he'd +better keep it to himself, and I guess he done so. S'pose Jeff still had +a sneakin' fondness for the girl?” + +“I don't know; perhaps,” Westover asserted. + +Whitwell threw his head back in a sudden laugh that showed all the work +of his dentist. “Well, wouldn't it be a joke if he was there in Florence +after her? Be just like Jeff.” + +“It would be like Jeff; I don't know whether it would be a joke or not. +I hope he won't find it a joke, if it's so,” said Westover, gloomily. +A fantastic apprehension seized him, which made him wish for the moment +that it might be so, and which then passed, leaving him simply sorry for +any chance that might bring Bessie Lynde into the fellow's way again. + +For the evening Whitwell's preference would have been a lecture of +some sort, but there was none advertised, and he consented to go with +Westover to the theatre. He came back to the painter at dinner-time, +after a wary exploration of the city, which had resulted not only in +a personal acquaintance with its monuments, but an immunity from its +dangers and temptations which he prided himself hardly less upon. He had +seen Faneuil Hall, the old State House, Bunker Hill, the Public Library, +and the Old South Church, and he had not been sandbagged or buncoed +or led astray from the paths of propriety. In the comfortable sense +of escape, he was disposed, to moralize upon the civilization of great +cities, which he now witnessed at first hand for the first time; and +throughout the evening, between the acts of the “Old Homestead,” + which he found a play of some merit, but of not so much novelty in its +characters as he had somehow led himself to expect, he recurred to the +difficulties and dangers that must beset a young man in coming to a +place like Boston. Westover found him less amusing than he had on his +own ground at Lion's Head, and tasted a quality of commonplace in his +deliverances which made him question whether he had not, perhaps, always +owed more to this environment than he had suspected. But they parted +upon terms of mutual respect and in the common hope of meeting again. +Whitwell promised to let Westover know what he heard of Jeff, but, when +the painter had walked the philosopher home to his hotel, he found a +message awaiting him at his studio from Jeff direct: + + Whitwell's despatch received. Wait letter. + “DURGIN.” + +Westover raged at the intelligent thrift of this telegram, and at the +implication that he not only knew all about the business of Whitwell's +despatch, but that he was in communication with him, and would be +sufficiently interested to convey Jeff's message to him. Of course, +Durgin had at once divined that Whitwell must have come to him for +advice, and that he would hear from him, whether he was still in Boston +or not. By cabling to Westover, Jeff saved the cost of an elaborate +address to Whitwell at Lion's Head, and had brought the painter in for +further consultation and assistance in his affairs. What vexed him still +more was his own consciousness that he could not defeat this impudent +expectation. He had, indeed, some difficulty with himself to keep from +going to Whitwell's hotel with the despatch at once, and he slept badly, +in his fear that he might not get it to him in the morning before he +left town. + +The sum of Jeff's letter when it came, and it came to Westover and not +to Whitwell, was to request the painter to see a lawyer in his behalf, +and put his insurance policies in his hands, with full authority to +guard his interests in the matter. He told Westover where his policies +would be found, and enclosed the key of his box in the Safety Vaults, +with a due demand for Westover's admission to it. He registered his +letter, and he jocosely promised Westover to do as much for him some +day, in pleading that there was really no one else he could turn to. He +put the whole business upon him, and Westover discharged himself of it +as briefly as he could by delivering the papers to the lawyer he had +already consulted for Whitwell. + +“Is this another charity patient?” asked his friend, with a grin. + +“No,” replied Westover. “You can charge this fellow along the whole +line.” + +Before he parted with the lawyer he had his misgivings, and he said: “I +shouldn't want the blackguard to think I had got a friend a fat job out +of him.” + +The lawyer laughed intelligently. “I shall only make the usual charge. +Then he is a blackguard.” + +“There ought to be a more blistering word.” + +“One that would imply that he was capable of setting fire to his +property?” + +“I don't say that. But I'm glad he was away when it took fire,” said +Westover. + +“You give him the benefit of the doubt.” + +“Yes, of every kind of doubt.” + + + + +LII. + +Westover once more promised himself to have nothing to do with Jeff +Durgin or his affairs. But he did not promise this so confidently +as upon former occasions, and he instinctively waited for a new +complication. He could not understand why Jeff should not have come +home to look after his insurance, unless it was because he had become +interested in some woman even beyond his concern for his own advantage. +He believed him capable of throwing away advantages for disadvantages in +a thing of that kind, but he thought it more probable that he had fallen +in love with one whom he would lose nothing by winning. It did not seem +at all impossible that he should have again met Bessie Lynde, and that +they should have made up their quarrel, or whatever it was. Jeff would +consider that he had done his whole duty by Cynthia, and that he was +free to renew his suit with Bessie; and there was nothing in Bessie's +character, as Westover understood it, to prevent her taking him back +upon a very small show of repentance if the needed emotions were in +prospect. He had decided pretty finally that it would be Bessie rather +than another when he received a letter from Mrs. Vostrand. It was dated +at Florence, and after some pretty palaver about their old friendship, +which she only hoped he remembered half as fondly as she did, the letter +ran: + + “I am turning to you now in a very strange difficulty, but I do not + know that I should turn to you even now, and knowing all I do of + your goodness, if I were not asked to do so by another. + + “I believe we have not heard from each other since the first days of + my poor Genevieve's marriage, when everything looked so bright and + fair, and we little realized the clouds that were to overcast her + happiness. It is a long story, and I will not go into it fully. + The truth is that poor Gigi did not treat her very kindly, and that + she has not lived with him since the birth of their little girl, now + nearly two years old, and the sweetest little creature in the world; + I wish you could see her; I am sure it would inspire your pencil + with the idea of an angel-child. At first I hoped that the + separation would be only temporary, and that when Genevieve had + regained her strength she would be willing to go back to her + husband; but nothing would induce her to do so. In fact, poor Gigi + had spent all her money, and they would have had nothing to live + upon but his pay, and you know that the pay of the Italian officers + is very small. + + “Gigi made several attempts to see her, and he threatened to take + the child from her, but he was always willing to compromise for + money. I am afraid that he never really loved her and that we were + both deceived by his fervent protestations. We managed to get away + from Florence without his knowing it, and we have spent the last two + years in Lausanne, very happily, though very quietly. Our dear + Checco is in the university there, his father having given up the + plan of sending him to Harvard, and we had him with us, while we + were taking measures to secure the divorce. Even in the simple way + we lived Genevieve attracted a great deal of attention, as she + always has done, and she would have had several eligible offers if + she had been divorced, or if her affections had not already been + engaged, as I did not know at the time. + + “We were in this state of uncertainty up to the middle of last + summer, when the news of poor Gigi's sudden death came. I am sorry + to say that his habits in some respects were not good, and that + probably hastened it some; it had obliged him to leave the army. + Genevieve did not feel that she could consistently put on black for + him, and I did not urge her, under the peculiar circumstances; + there is so much mere formality in those kind of things at the best; + but we immediately returned to Florence to try and see if we could + not get back some of her effects which his family had seized. I am + opposed to lawsuits if they can possibly be avoided, and we arranged + with poor Gigi's family by agreeing to let them have Genevieve's + furniture if they would promise never to molest her with the child, + and I must say they have behaved very well. We are on the best of + terms with them, and they have let us have some of the things back + which were endeared to her by old associations, at a very reasonable + rate. + + “This brings me to the romantic part of my letter, and I will say at + once that we found your friend Mr. Durgin in Florence, in the very + hotel we went to. We all met in the dining-room, at the table + d'hote one evening, and Genevieve and he took to each other at once. + He spent the evening with us in our private drawing-room, and she + said to me, after he went, that for the first time in years she felt + rested. It seems that she had always secretly fancied him, and that + she gave up to me in the matter of marrying poor Gigi, because she + knew I had my heart set upon it, and she was not very certain of her + own feelings when Mr. D. offered himself in Boston; but the + conviction that she had made a mistake grew upon, her more and more + after she had married Gigi. + + “Well, now, Mr. Westover, I suppose you have guessed by this time + that Mr. Durgin has renewed his offer, and Genevieve has + conditionally accepted him; we do not feel that she is like an + ordinary widow, and that she has to fill up a certain season of + mourning; she and Gigi have been dead to each other for years; and + Mr. Durgin is as fond of our dear little Bice as her own father + could be, and they are together all the time. Her name is Beatrice + de' Popolani Grassi. Isn't it lovely? She has poor Gigi's black + eyes, with the most beautiful golden hair, which she gets from our + aide. You remember Genevieve's hair back in the dear old days, + before any trouble had come, and we were all so happy together? And + this brings me to what I wanted to say. You are the oldest friend + we have, and by a singular coincidence you are the oldest friend of + Mr. Durgin, too. I cannot bear to risk my child's happiness a + second time, and though Mr. Vostrand fully approves of the match, + and has cabled his consent from Seattle, Washington, still, you + know, a mother's heart cannot be at rest without some positive + assurance. I told Mr. Durgin quite frankly how I felt, and he + agreed with me that after our experience with poor Gigi we could not + be too careful, and he authorized me to write to you and find out + all you knew about him. He said you had known him ever since he was + a boy, and that if there was anything bad in his record you could + tell it, and he did not want you to spire the truth. He knows you + will be just, and he wants you to write out the facts as they struck + you at the time. + + “I shall be on pins and needles, as the saying is, till we hear from + you, and you know hew Genevieve and Mr. D. must be feeling. She is + fully resolved not to have him without your endorsement, and he is + quite willing to abide by what you say. + + “I could almost wish you to cable me just Good or Bad, but I know + that this will not be wise, and I am going to wait for your letter, + and get your opinion in full. + + “We all join in the kindest regards. Mr. D. is talking with + Genevieve while I write, and has our darling Bice on his knees. + You cannot imagine what a picture it makes, her childish delicacy + contrasted with his stalwart strength. She says to send you a + baciettino, and I wish you were here to receive it from her angel + lips. Yours faithfully, + + “MEDORA VOSTRAND. + + “P. S.--Mr. D. says that he fell in love with Genevieve across the + barrier between the first and second cabin when he came over with us + on the Aquitaine four years ago, and that he has never ceased to + love her, though at one time he persuaded himself that he cared for + another because he felt that she was lost to him forever, and it was + no use: He really did care for the lady he was engaged to, and had a + true affection for her, which he mistook for a warmer feeling. He + says that she was worthy of any man's love and of the highest + respect. I tell Genevieve that, she ought to honor him for it, and + that she must never be jealous of a memory. We are very happy in + Mr. Vostrand's cordial approval of the match. He is so glad to + think that Mr. D. is a business man. His cable from Seattle was + most enthusiastic. + + “M. D.” + +Westover did not know whether to laugh or cry when he read this letter, +which covered several sheets of paper in lines that traversed each +other in different directions. His old, youthful ideal of Mrs. Vostrand +finally perished in its presence, though still he could not blame her +for wishing to see her daughter well married after having seen her +married so ill. He asked himself, without getting any very definite +response, whether Mrs. Vostrand had always been this kind of a woman, or +had grown into it by the use of arts which her peculiar plan of life had +rendered necessary to her. He remembered the intelligent toleration of +Cynthia in speaking of her, and his indignation in behalf of the girl +was also thrill of joy for her escape from the fate which Mrs. Vostrand +was so eagerly invoking for her daughter. But he thought of Genevieve +with something of the same tenderness, and with a compassion that was +for her alone. She seemed to him a victim who was to be sacrificed a +second time, and he had clearly a duty to her which he must not evade. +The only question could be how best to discharge it, and Westover took +some hours from his work to turn the question over in his mind. In the +end, when he was about to give the whole affair up for the present, and +lose a night's sleep over it later, he had an inspiration, and he acted +upon it at once. He perceived that he owed no formal response to the +sentimental insincerities of Mrs. Vostrand's letter, and he decided to +write to Durgin himself, and to put the case altogether in his hands. If +Durgin chose to show the Vostrands what he should write, very well; if +he chose not to show it, then Westover's apparent silence would be a +sufficient reply to Mrs. Vostrand's appeal. + + “I prefer to address you,” he began, “because I do not choose to let + you think that I have any feeling to indulge against you, and + because I do not think I have the right to take you out of your own + keeping in any way. You would be in my keeping if I did, and I do + not wish that, not only because it would be a bother to me, but + because it would be a wrong to you. + + “Mrs. Vostrand, whose letter to me I will leave you to answer by + showing her this, or in any other manner you choose, tells me you do + not want me to spare the truth concerning you. I have never been + quite certain what the truth was concerning you; you know that + better than I do; and I do not propose to write your biography here. + But I will remind you of a few things. + + “The first day I saw you, I caught you amusing yourself with the + terror of two little children, and I had the pleasure of cuffing you + for it. But you were only a boy then, and afterward you behaved so + well that I decided you were not so much cruel as thoughtlessly + mischievous. When you had done all you could to lead me to this + favorable conclusion, you suddenly turned and avenged yourself on + me, so far as you could, for the help I had given the little ones + against you. I never greatly blamed you for that, for I decided + that you had a vindictive temperament, and that you were not + responsible for your temperament, but only for your character. + + “In your first year at Harvard your associations were bad, and your + conduct generally was so bad that you were suspended. You were + arrested with other rowdy students, and passed the night in a police + station. I believe you were justly acquitted of any specific + offence, and I always believed that if you had experienced greater + kindness socially during your first year in college you would have + been a better man. + + “You seem to have told Mrs. Vostrand of your engagement, and I will + not speak of that. It was creditable to you that so wise and good a + girl as your betrothed should have trusted you, and I do not know + that it was against you that another girl who was neither wise nor + good should have trusted you at the same time. You broke with the + last, because you had to choose between the two; and, so far as I + know, you accepted with a due sense of your faithlessness your + dismissal by the first. In this connection I must remind you that + while you were doing your best to make the party to your second + engagement believe that you were in love with her, you got her + brother, an habitual inebriate, drunk, and were, so far, + instrumental in breaking down the weak will with which he was + struggling against his propensity. It is only fair to you that I + should add that you persuaded me you got him only a little drunker + than he already got himself, and that you meant to have looked after + him, but forgot him in your preoccupation with his sister. + + “I do not know what took place between you and these people after + you broke your engagement with the sister, until your encounter with + the brother in Whitwell's Clearing, and I know of this only at + second hand. I can well believe that you had some real or fancied + injury to pay off; and I give you all the credit you may wish to + claim for sparing him at last. For one of your vindictive + temperament it must have been difficult. + + “I have told you the worst things I know of you, and I do not + pretend to know them more than superficially. I am not asked to + judge you, and I will not. You must be your own judge. You are to + decide whether these and other acts of yours are the acts of a man + good enough to be intrusted with the happiness of a woman who has + already been very unhappy. + + “You have sometimes, however--oftener than I wished--come to me for + advice, and I now offer you some advice voluntarily. Do not suppose + that because you love this woman, as you believe, you are fit to be + the keeper of her future. Ask yourself how you have dealt hitherto + with those who have loved you, and whom in a sort you loved, and do + not go further unless the answer is such as you can fully and + faithfully report to the woman you wish to marry. What you have + made yourself you will be to the end. You once called me an + idealist, and perhaps you will call this idealism. I will only add, + and I will give the last word in your defence, you alone know what + you are.” + + + + +LIII. + +As soon as Westover had posted his letter he began to blame himself for +it. He saw that the right and manly thing would have been to write +to Mrs. Vostrand, and tell her frankly what he thought of Durgin. +Her folly, her insincerity, her vulgarity, had nothing to do with the +affair, so far as he was concerned. If she had once been so kind to him +as to bind him to her in grateful friendship, she certainly had a claim +upon his best offices. His duty was to her, and not at all to Durgin. He +need not have said anything against him because it was against him, +but because it was true; and if he had written he must not have said +anything less than the truth. + +He could have chosen not to write at all. He could have said that her +mawkish hypocrisy was a little too much; that she was really wanting him +to whitewash Durgin for her, and she had no right to put upon him the +responsibility for the step she clearly wished to take. He could have +made either of these decisions, and defended them to himself; but in +what he had done he had altogether shirked. While he was writing to +Durgin, and pretending that he could justly leave this affair to him, he +was simply indulging a bit of sentimental pose, far worse than anything +in Mrs. Vostrand's sham appeal for his help. + +He felt, as the time went by, that she had not written of her own +impulse, but at her daughter's urgence, and that it was this poor +creature whose trust he had paltered with. He believed that Durgin +would not fail to make her unhappy, yet he had not done what he might +to deliver her out of his hand. He had satisfied a wretched +pseudo-magnanimity toward a faithless scoundrel, as he thought Durgin, +at the cost of a woman whose anxious hope of his aid had probably forced +her mother's hand. + +At first he thought his action irrevocable, and he bitterly upbraided +himself for not taking council with Cynthia upon Mrs. Vostrand's letter. +He had thought of doing that, and then he had dismissed the thought as +involving pain that he had no right to inflict; but now he perceived +that the pain was such as she must suffer in the event, and that he had +stupidly refused himself the only means of finding out the right thing +to do. Her true heart and her clear mind would have been infallible in +the affair, and he had trusted to his own muddled impulse. + +He began to write other letters: to Durgin, to Mrs. Vostrand, to +Genevieve; but none of them satisfied him, and he let the days go by +without doing anything to retrieve his error or fulfil his duty. At last +he did what he ought to have done at first: he enclosed Mrs. Vostrand's +letter to Cynthia, and asked her what she thought he ought to have done. +While he was waiting Cynthia's answer to his letter, a cable message +reached him from Florence: + + “Kind letter received. Married to-day. Written. + + “Vostrand.” + +The next mail brought Cynthia's reply, which was very brief: + + “I am sorry you had to write at all; nothing could have prevented + it. Perhaps if he cares for her he will be good to her.” + +Since the matter was now irremediable, Westover crept less miserably +through the days than he could have believed he should, until the letter +which Mrs. Vostrand's cable promised came to hand. + + “Dear friend,” she wrote, “your generous and satisfactory answer + came yesterday. It was so delicate and high,-minded, and so like + you, to write to Mr. Durgin, and leave the whole affair to him; and + he did not lose a moment in showing us your beautiful letter. He + said you were a man after his own heart, and I wish you could have + heard how he praised you. It made Genevieve quite jealous, or would + have, if it had been any one else. But she is so happy in your + approval of her marriage, which is to take place before the + 'sindaco' to-morrow, We shall only have the civil rite; she feels + that it is more American, and we are all coming home to Lion's Head + in the spring to live and die true Americans. I wish you could + spend the summer with us there, but, until Lion's Head is rebuilt, + we can't ask you. I don't know exactly how we shall do ourselves, + but Mr. Durgin is full of plans, and we leave everything to him. + He is here, making Genevieve laugh so that I can hardly write. + He joins us in love and thanks, and our darling Bice sends you a + little kiss. + + “MEDORA VOSTRAND. + + “P. S. Mr. D. has told us all about the affairs you alluded to. + With Miss L. we cannot feel that he was to blame; but he blames + himself in regard to Miss W. He says his only excuse is that he was + always in love with Genevieve; and I think that is quite excuse + enough. M. V.” + +From time to time during the winter Westover wrote to Cynthia, and had +letters from her in which he pleased himself fancying almost a personal +effect of that shyness which he thought a charming thing in her. But +no doubt this was something he read into them; on their face they were +plain, straightforward accounts of the life she led in the little old +house at Lion's Head, under the shadow of the black ruin on the hill. +Westover had taken to sending her books and magazines, and in thanking +him for these she would sometimes speak of things she had read in them. +Her criticism related to the spirit rather than the manner of the things +she spoke of, and it pleased him that she seemed, with all her insight, +to have very little artistic sense of any kind; in the world where he +lived there were so many women with an artistic sense in every kind that +he was rather weary of it. + +There never was anything about Durgin in the letters, and Westover +was both troubled and consoled by this silence. It might be from +consciousness, and it probably was; it might be from indifference. In +the worst event, it hid any pain she might have felt with a dignity from +which no intimation of his moved her. The nearest she came to speaking +of Jeff was when she said that Jombateeste was going to work at the +brick-yards in Cambridge as soon as the spring opened, and was not going +to stay any longer at Lion's Head. + +Her brother Frank, she reported, had got a place with part work in the +drug-and-book store at Lovewell, where he could keep on more easily with +his studies; he had now fully decided to study for the ministry; he had +always wanted to be an Episcopalian. + +One day toward the end of April, when several weeks had passed without +bringing Westover any word from Cynthia, her father presented himself, +and enjoyed in the painter's surprise the sensation of having dropped +upon him from the clouds. He gave due accounts of the health of each of +his household; ending with Jombateeste. “You know he's out at the brick, +as he calls it, in Cambridge.” + +“Cynthia said he was coming. I didn't know he had come yet,” said +Westover. “I must go out and look him up, if you think I could find him +among all those Canucks.” + +“Well, I don't know but you'd better look us up at the same time,” said +Whitwell, with additional pleasure in the painter's additional surprise. +“I guess we're out in Cambridge, too,” he added, at Westover's start +of question. “We're out there, visitin' one of our summer folks, as you +might say. Remember Mis' Fredericks?” + +“Why, what the deuce kept you from telling me so at once?” Westover +demanded, indignantly. + +“Guess I hadn't got round to it,” said Whitwell, with dry relish. + +“Do you mean that Cynthia's there?” + +“Well, I guess they wouldn't cared much for a visit from me.” + +Whitwell took advantage of Westover's moment of mystification to explain +that Jeff had written over to him from Italy, offering him a pretty good +rent for his house, which he wanted to occupy while he was rebuilding +Lion's Head. He was going to push the work right through in the summer, +and be ready for the season the year after. That was what Whitwell +understood, and he understood that Jeff's family was going to stay in +Lovewell, but Jeff himself wanted to be on the ground day and night. + +“So that's kind of turned us out of doors, as you may say, and Cynthia's +always had this idee of comin' down Boston way: and she didn't know +anybody that could advise with her as well as Mis' Fredericks, and she +wrote to her, and Mis' Fredericks answered her to come right down and +talk it over.” Westover felt a pang of resentment that Cynthia, had not +turned to him for counsel, but he said nothing, and Whitwell went +on: “She said she was, ashamed to bother you, you'd had the whole +neighborhood on your hands so much, and so she wrote to Mis' +Fredericks.” + +Westover had a vague discomfort in it all, which ultimately defined +itself as a discontent with the willingness of the Whitwells to let +Durgin occupy their house upon any terms, for any purpose, and a +lingering grudge that Cynthia should have asked help of any one but +himself, even from a motive of delicacy. + +In the evening he went out to see the girl at the house of Mrs. +Fredericks, whom he found living in the Port. They had a first moment of +intolerable shyness on her part. He had been afraid to see her, with the +jealousy for her dignity he always felt, lest she should look as if she +had been unhappy about Durgin. But he found her looking, not only +very well, but very happy and full of peace, as soon as that moment of +shyness passed. It seemed to Westover as if she had begun to live on new +terms, and that a harassing element, which had always been in it, had +gone out of her life, and in its absence she was beginning to rejoice +in a lasting repose. He found himself rejoicing with her, and he found +himself on simpler and franker terms with her than ever before. Neither +of them spoke of Jeff, or made any approach to mention him, and Westover +believed that this was not from a morbid feeling in her, but from a +final and enduring indifference. + +He saw her alone, for Mrs. Fredericks and her daughter had gone into +town to a concert, which he made her confess she would have gone to +herself if it had not been that her father said he was coming out to see +her. She would not let him joke about the sacrifice he pretended she had +made; he had a certain pain in fancying that his visit was the highest +and finest favor that life could do her. She told him of the ambition +she had that she might get a school somewhere in the neighborhood of +Boston, and then find something for her brother to do, while he began +his studies in the Theological School at Harvard. Frank was still at +Lovewell, it seemed. + +At the end of the long call he made, he said, abruptly, when he had +risen to go, “I should like to paint you.” + +“Who? Me?” she cried, as if it were the most incredible thing, while a +glad color rushed over her face. + +“Yes. While you're waiting to get your school, couldn't you come in with +your father, now and then, and sit for me?” + +“What's he want me to come fer?” Whitwell demanded, when the plan was +laid before him. He was giving his unlimited leisure to the exploration +of Boston, and his tone expressed something of the injury, which he also +put into words, as a sole objection to the proposed interruption. “Can't +you go alone, Cynthy?” Cynthia said she did not know, but when the +point was referred to Mrs. Fredericks, she was sure Cynthia could not +go alone, and she acquainted them both, as far as she could, with that +mystery of chaperonage which had never touched their lives before. +Whitwell seemed to think that his daughter would give the matter up; +and perhaps she might have done so, though she seemed reluctant, if +Mrs. Fredericks had not further instructed them that it was the highest +possible honor Mr. Westover was offering them, and that if he had +proposed to paint her daughter she would simply have gone and lived with +him while he was doing it. + +Whitwell found some compensation for the time lost to his study of +Boston in the conversation of the painter, which he said was worth a +hundred cents on the dollar every time, though it dealt less with the +metaphysical aspect of the latest facts of science than the philosopher +could have wished. He did not, to be sure, take very much stock in the +picture as it advanced, somewhat fitfully, with a good many reversions +to its original state of sketch. It appeared to him always a slight and +feeble representation of Cynthia, though, of course, a native politeness +forbade him to express his disappointment. He avowed a faith in +Westover's ability to get it right in the end, and always bade him go +on, and take as much time to it as he wanted. + +He felt less uneasy than at first, because he had now found a little +furnished house in the woodenest outskirts of North Cambridge, which he +hired cheap from the recently widowed owner, and they were keeping house +there. Jombateeste lived with them, and worked in the brick-yards. Out +of hours he helped Cynthia, and kept the ugly little place looking trim +and neat, and left Whitwell free for the tramps home to nature, which he +began to take over the Belmont uplands as soon as the spring opened. He +was not homesick, as Cynthia was afraid he might be; his mind was +fully occupied by the vast and varied interests opened to it by the +intellectual and material activities of the neighboring city; and he +found ample scope for his physical energies in doing Cynthia's errands, +as well as studying the strange flora of the region. He apparently +thought that he had made a distinct rise and advance in the world. +Sometimes, in the first days of his satisfaction with his establishment, +he expressed the wish that Jackson could only have seen how he was +fixed, once. In his preoccupation with other things, he no longer +attempted to explore the eternal mysteries with the help of planchette; +the ungrateful instrument gathered as much dust as Cynthia would suffer +on the what-not in the corner of the solemn parlor; and after two +or three visits to the First Spiritual Temple in Boston, he lapsed +altogether from an interest in the other world, which had, perhaps, +mainly flourished in the absence of pressing subjects of inquiry, in +this. + +When at last Westover confessed that he had carried his picture +of Cynthia as far as he could, Whitwell did his best to hide his +disappointment. “Well, sir,” he said, tolerantly and even cheeringly, “I +presume we're every one of us a different person to whoever looks at us. +They say that no two men see the same star.” + +“You mean that she doesn't look so to you,” suggested the painter, who +seemed not at all abashed. + +“Well, you might say--Why, here! It's like her; photograph couldn't get +it any better; but it makes me think-well, of a bird that you've come on +sudden, and it stoops as if it was goin' to fly--” + +“Ah,” said Westover, “does it make you think of that?” + + + + +LIV. + +The painter could not make out at first whether the girl herself was +pleased with the picture or not, and in his uncertainty he could not +give it her at once, as he had hoped and meant to do. It was by a kind +of accident he found afterward that she had always been passionately +proud of his having painted her. This was when he returned from the last +sojourn he had made in Paris, whither he went soon after the Whitwells +settled in North Cambridge. He left the picture behind him to be framed +and then sent to her with a letter he had written, begging her to give +it houseroom while he was gone. He got a short, stiff note in +reply after he reached Paris, and he had not tried to continue the +correspondence. But as soon as he returned he went out to see the +Whitwells in North Cambridge. They were still in their little house +there; the young widower had married again; but neither he nor his new +wife had cared to take up their joint life in his first home, and he had +found Whitwell such a good tenant that he had not tried to put up the +rent on him. Frank was at home, now, with an employment that gave him +part of his time for his theological studies; Cynthia had been teaching +school ever since the fall after Westover went away, and they were all, +as Whitwell said, in clover. He was the only member of the family at +home when Westover called on the afternoon of a warm summer day, and he +entertained him with a full account of a visit he had paid Lion's Head +earlier in the season. + +“Yes, sir,” he said, as if he had already stated the fact, “I've sold my +old place there to that devil.” He said devil without the least rancor; +with even a smile of good-will, and he enjoyed the astonishment Westover +expressed in his demand: + +“Sold Durgin your house?” + +“Yes; I see we never wanted to go back there to live, any of us, and I +went up to pass the papers and close the thing out. Well, I did have an +offer for it from a feller that wanted to open a boa'din'-house there +and get the advantage of Jeff's improvements, and I couldn't seem to +make up my mind till I'd looked the ground over. Fust off, you know, I +thought I'd sell to the other feller, because I could see in a minute +what a thorn it 'd be in Jeff's flesh. But, dumn it all! When I met the +comical devil I couldn't seem to want to pester him. Why, here, thinks +I, if we've made an escape from him--and I guess we have, about the +biggest escape--what have I got ag'in' him, anyway? I'd ought to feel +good to him; and I guess that's the way I did feel, come to boil it +down. He's got a way with him, you know, when you're with him, that +makes you like him. He may have a knife in your ribs the whole while, +but so long's he don't turn it, you don't seem to know it, and you can't +help likin' him. Why, I hadn't been with Jeff five minutes before I made +up my mind to sell to him. I told him about the other offer--felt bound +to do it--and he was all on fire. 'I want that place, Mr. Whitwell,' s'd +he. 'Name your price.' Well, I wa'n't goin' to take an advantage of the +feller, and I guess he see it. 'You've offered me three thousand,' s'd +I, 'n' I don't want to be no ways mean about it. Five thousand buys the +place.' 'It's mine,' s'd he; just like that. I guess he see he had a +gentleman to deal with, and we didn't say a word more. Don't you think I +done right to sell to him? I couldn't 'a' got more'n thirty-five hundred +out the other feller, to save me, and before Jeff begun his improvements +I couldn't 'a' realized a thousand dollars on the prop'ty.” + +“I think you did right to sell to him,” said Westover, saddened somewhat +by the proof Whitwell alleged of his magnanimity. + +“Well, Sir, I'm glad you do. I don't believe in crowdin' a man because +you got him in a corner, an' I don't believe in bearin' malice. Never +did. All I wanted was what the place was wo'th--to him. 'Twa'n't wo'th +nothin' to me! He's got the house and the ten acres around it, and he's +got the house on Lion's Head, includin' the Clearin', that the poottiest +picnic-ground in the mountains. Think of goin' up there this summer?” + +“No,” said Westover, briefly. + +“Well, I some wish you did. I sh'd like to know how Jeff's improvements +struck you. Of course, I can't judge of 'em so well, but I guess he's +made a pootty sightly thing of it. He told me he'd had one of the +leadin' Boston architects to plan the thing out for him, and I tell you +he's got something nice. 'Tain't so big as old Lion's Head, and Jeff +wants to cater to a different style of custom, anyway. The buildin's +longer'n what she is deep, and she spreads in front so's to give as many +rooms a view of the mountain as she can. Know what 'runnaysonce' is? +Well, that's the style Jeff said it was; it's all pillars and pilasters; +and you ride up to the office through a double row of colyums, under a +kind of a portico. It's all painted like them old Colonial houses down +on Brattle Street, buff and white. Well, it made me think of one of them +old pagan temples. He's got her shoved along to the south'ard, and he's +widened out a piece of level for her to stand on, so 't that piece o' +wood up the hill there is just behind her, and I tell you she looks +nice, backin' up ag'inst the trees. I tell you, Jeff's got a head on +him! I wish you could see that dinin'-room o' his: all white colyums, +and frontin' on the view. Why, that devil's got a regular little +theatyre back o' the dinin'-room for the young folks to act ammyture +plays in, and the shows that come along, and he's got a dance-hall +besides; the parlors ain't much--folks like to set in the office; and +a good many of the rooms are done off into soots, and got their own +parlors. I tell you, it's swell, as they say. You can order what you +please for breakfast, but for lunch and dinner you got to take what Jeff +gives you; but he treats you well. He's a Durgin, when it comes to that. +Served in cou'ses, and dinner at seven o'clock. I don't know where he +got his money for 't all, but I guess he put in his insurance fust, and +then he put a mortgage on the buildin'; be as much as owned it; said +he'd had a splendid season last year, and if he done as well for a +copule of seasons more he'd have the whole prop'ty free o' debt.” + +Westover could see that the prosperity of the unjust man had corrupted +the imagination and confounded the conscience of this simple witness, +and he asked, in the hope of giving his praises pause: “What has he done +about the old family burying-ground in the orchard?” + +“Well, there!” said Whitwell. “That got me more than any other one +thing: I naturally expected that Jeff 'd had 'em moved, for you know and +I know, Mr. Westover, that a place like that couldn't be very pop'la' +with summer folks; they don't want to have anything to kind of make 'em +serious, as you may say. But that devil got his architect to treat +the place, as he calls it, and he put a high stone wall around it, and +planted it to bushes and evergreens so 't looks like a piece of old +garden, down there in the corner of the orchard, and if you didn't +hunt for it you wouldn't know it was there. Jeff said 't when folks +did happen to find it out, he believed they liked it; they think it's +picturesque and ancient. Why, some on 'em wanted him to put up a little +chapel alongside and have services there; and Jeff said he didn't know +but he'd do it yet. He's got dark-colored stones up for Mis' Durgin and +Jackson, so 't they look as old as any of 'em. I tell you, he knows how +to do things.” + +“It seems so,” said Westover, with a bitterness apparently lost upon the +optimistic philosopher. + +“Yes, sir. I guess it's all worked out for the best. So long's he didn't +marry Cynthy, I don't care who he married, and--I guess he's made out +fust-rate, and he treats his wife well, and his mother-in-law, too. You +wouldn't hardly know they was in the house, they're so kind of quiet; +and if a guest wants to see Jeff, he's got to send and ask for him; +clerk does everything, but I guess Jeff keeps an eye out and knows +what's goin' on. He's got an elegant soot of appartments, and he lives +as private as if he was in his own house, him and his wife. But when +there's anything goin' on that needs a head, they're both right on deck. + +“He don't let his wife worry about things a great deal; he's got a +fust-rate of a housekeeper, but I guess old Mis' Vostrand keeps the +housekeeper, as you may say. I hear some of the boa'ders talkin' up +there, and one of 'em said 't the great thing about Lion's Head was 't +you could feel everywheres in it that it was a lady's house. I guess +Jeff has a pootty good time, and a time 't suits him. He shows up on the +coachin' parties, and he's got himself a reg'lar English coachman's rig, +with boots outside his trouse's, and a long coat and a fuzzy plug-hat: I +tell you, he looks gay! He don't spend his winters at Lion's Head: he +is off to Europe about as soon as the house closes in the fall, and he +keeps bringin' home new dodges. Guess you couldn't get no boa'd there +for no seven dollars a week now! I tell you, Jeff's the gentleman now, +and his wife's about the nicest lady I ever saw. Do' know as I care so +much about her mother; do' know as I got anything ag'inst her, either, +very much. But that little girl, Beechy, as they call her, she's a +beauty! And round with Jeff all the while! He seems full as fond of her +as her own mother does, and that devil, that couldn't seem to get enough +of tormentin' little children when he was a boy, is as good and gentle +with that little thing as-pie!” + +Whitwell seemed to have come to an end of his celebration of Jeff's +success, and Westover asked: + +“And what do you make now, of planchette's brokenshaft business? Or +don't you believe in planchette any more?” + +Whitwell's beaming face clouded. “Well, sir, that's a thing that's +always puzzled me. If it wa'n't that it was Jackson workin' plantchette +that night, I shouldn't placed much dependence on what she said; but +Jackson could get the truth out of her, if anybody could. Sence I b'en +up there I b'en figurin' it out like this: the broken shaft is the old +Jeff that he's left off bein'--” + +Whitwell stopped midway in his suggestion, with an inquiring eye on the +painter, who asked: “You think he's left off being the old Jeff?” + +“Well, sir, you got me there,” the philosopher confessed. “I didn't see +anything to the contrary, but come to think of it--” + +“Why couldn't the broken shaft be his unfulfilled destiny on the old +lines? What reason is there to believe he isn't what he's always been?” + +“Well, come to think of it--” + +“People don't change in a day, or a year,” Westover went on, “or two or +three years, even. Sometimes I doubt if they ever change.” + +“Well, all that I thought,” Whitwell urged, faintly, against the hard +scepticism of a man ordinarily so yielding, “is 't there must be a moral +government of the universe somewheres, and if a bad feller is to get +along and prosper hand over hand, that way, don't it look kind of as +if--” + +“There wasn't any moral government of the universe? Not the way I see +it,” said Westover. “A tree brings forth of its kind. As a man sows he +reaps. It's dead sure, pitilessly sure. Jeff Durgin sowed success, in +a certain way, and he's reaping it. He once said to me, when I tried to +waken his conscience, that he should get where he was trying to go if he +was strong enough, and being good had nothing to do with it. I believe +now he was right. But he was wrong too, as such a man always is. That +kind of tree bears Dead Sea apples, after all. He sowed evil, and he +must reap evil. He may never know it, but he will reap what he has sown. +The dreadful thing is that others must share in his harvest. What do you +think?” + +Whitwell scratched his head. “Well, sir, there's something in what you +say, I guess. But here! What's the use of thinkin' a man can't change? +Wa'n't there ever anything in that old idee of a change of heart? What +do you s'pose made Jeff let up on that feller that Jombateeste see him +have down, that day, in my Clearin'? What Jeff would natch'ly done would +b'en to shake the life out of him; but he didn't; he let him up, and he +let him go. What's the reason that wa'n't the beginnin' of a new life +for him?” + +“We don't know all the ins and outs of that business,” said Westover, +after a moment. “I've puzzled over it a good deal. The man was the +brother of that girl that Jeff had jilted in Boston. I've found out that +much. I don't know just the size and shape of the trouble between them, +but Jeff may have felt that he had got even with his enemy before that +day. Or he may have felt that if he was going in for full satisfaction, +there was Jombateeste looking on.” + +“That's true,” said Whitwell, greatly daunted. After a while he took +refuge in the reflection, “Well, he's a comical devil.” + +Westover said, in a sort of absence: “Perhaps we're all broken shafts, +here. Perhaps that old hypothesis of another life, a world where +there is room enough and time enough for all the beginnings of this to +complete themselves--” + +“Well, now you're shoutin',” said Whitwell. “And if plantchette--” + Westover rose. “Why, a'n't you goin' to wait and see Cynthy? I'm +expectin' her along every minute now; she's just gone down to Harvard +Square. She'll be awfully put out when she knows you've be'n here.” + +“I'll come out again soon,” said Westover. “Tell her--” + +“Well, you must see your picture, anyway. We've got it in the parlor. I +don't know what she'll say to me, keepin' you here in the settin'-room +all the time.” + +Whitwell led him into the little dark front hall, and into the parlor, +less dim than it should have been because the afternoon sun was burning +full upon its shutters. The portrait hung over the mantel, in a bad +light, but the painter could feel everything in it that he could not +see. + +“Yes, it had that look in it.” + +“Well, she ha'n't took wing yet, I'm thankful to think,” said Whitwell, +and he spoke from his own large mind to the sympathy of an old friend +who he felt could almost share his feelings as a father. + + + + +LV + +When Westover turned out of the baking little street where the Whitwells +lived into an elm-shaded stretch of North Avenue, he took off his hat +and strolled bareheaded along in the cooler air. He was disappointed not +to have seen Cynthia, and yet he found himself hurrying away after his +failure, with a sense of escape, or at least of respite. + +What he had come to say, to do, was the effect of long experience and +much meditation. The time had arrived when he could no longer feign to +himself that his feelings toward the girl were not those of a lover, +but he had his modest fears that she could never imagine him in that +character, and that if he should ask her to do so he should shock and +grieve her, and inflict upon himself an incurable wound. + +During this last absence of his he had let his fancy dwell constantly +upon her, until life seemed worth having only if she would share it with +him. He was an artist, and he had always been a bohemian, but at heart +he was philistine and bourgeois. His ideal was a settlement, a fixed +habitation, a stated existence, a home where he could work constantly in +an air of affection, and unselfishly do his part to make his home happy. +It was a very simple-hearted ambition, and I do not quite know how to +keep it from appearing commonplace and almost sordid; but such as it +was, I must confess that it was his. He had not married his model, +because he was mainly a landscapist, perhaps; and he had not married any +of his pupils, because he had not been in love with them, charming +and good and lovely as he had thought some of them; and of late he had +realized more and more why his fancy had not turned in their direction. +He perceived that it was already fixed, and possibly had long been +fixed. + +He did not blink the fact that there were many disparities, and +that there would be certain disadvantages which could never be quite +overcome. The fact had been brought rather strenuously home to him by +his interview with Cynthia's father. He perceived, as indeed he had +always known, that with a certain imaginative lift in his thinking and +feeling, Whitwell was irreparably rustic, that he was and always must +be practically Yankee. Westover was not a Yankee, and he did not love or +honor the type, though its struggles against itself touched and amused +him. It made him a little sick to hear how Whitwell had profited by +Durgin's necessity, and had taken advantage of him with conscientious +and self-applausive rapacity, while he admired his prosperity, and tried +to account for it by doubt of its injustice. For a moment this seemed +to him worse than Durgin's conscientious toughness, which was the +antithesis of Whitwell's remorseless self-interest. For the moment this +claimed Cynthia of its kind, and Westover beheld her rustic and Yankee +of her father's type. If she was not that now, she would grow into +that through the lapse from the personal to the ancestral which we all +undergo in the process of the years. + +The sight of her face as he had pictured it, and of the soul which he +had imagined for it, restored him to a better sense of her, but he felt +the need of escaping from the suggestion of her father's presence, and +taking further thought. Perhaps he should never again reach the point +that he was aware of deflecting from now; he filled his lungs with +long breaths, which he exhaled in sighs of relief. It might have been a +mistake on the spiritual as well as the worldly side; it would certainly +not have promoted his career; it might have impeded it. These misgivings +flitted over the surface of thought that more profoundly was occupied +with a question of other things. In the time since he had seen her last +it might very well be that a young and pretty girl had met some one who +had taken her fancy; and he could not be sure that her fancy had ever +been his, even if this had not happened. He had no proof at all that she +had ever cared or could care for him except gratefully, respectfully, +almost reverentially, with that mingling of filial and maternal anxiety +which had hitherto been the warmest expression of her regard. He tried +to reason it out, and could not. He suddenly found himself bitterly +disappointed that he had missed seeing her, for if they had met, he +would have known by this time what to think, what to hope. He felt +old--he felt fully thirty-six years old--as he passed his hand over his +crown, whose gossamer growth opposed so little resistance to his touch. +He had begun to lose his hair early, but till then he had not much +regretted his baldness. He entered into a little question of their +comparative ages, which led him to the conclusion that Cynthia must now +be about twenty-five. + +Almost at the same moment he saw her coming up the walk toward him from +far down the avenue. For a reason, or rather a motive, of his own he +pretended to himself that it was not she, but he knew instantly that it +was, and he put on his hat. He could see that she did not know him, and +it was a pretty thing to witness the recognition dawn on her. When it +had its full effect, he was aware of a flutter, a pause in her whole +figure before she came on toward him, and he hurried his steps for the +charm of her beautiful blushing face. + +It was the spiritual effect of figure and face that he had carried in +his thought ever since he had arrived at that one-sided intimacy through +his study of her for the picture he had just seen. He had often had +to ask himself whether he had really perceived or only imagined the +character he had translated into it; but here, for the moment at least, +was what he had seen. He hurried forward and joyfully took the hand she +gave him. He thought he should speak of that at once, but it was not +possible, of course. There had to come first the unheeded questions +and answers about each other's health, and many other commonplaces. +He turned and walked home with her, and at the gate of the little ugly +house she asked him if he would not come in and take tea with them. + +Her father talked with him while she got the tea, and when it was ready +her brother came in from his walk home out of Old Cambridge and helped +her put it on the table. He had grown much taller than Westover, and +he was very ecclesiastical in his manner; more so than he would be, +probably, if he ever became a bishop, Westover decided. Jombateeste, in +an interval of suspended work at the brick yard, was paying a visit to +his people in Canada, and Westover did not see him. + +All the time while they sat at table and talked together Westover +realized more and more that for him, at least, the separation of the +last two years had put that space between them which alone made it +possible for them to approach each other on new ground. A kind of +horror, of repulsion, for her engagement to Jeff Durgin had ceased from +his sense of her; it was as if she had been unhappily married, and the +man, who had been unworthy and unkind, was like a ghost who could never +come to trouble his joy. He was more her contemporary, he found, than +formerly; she had grown a great deal in the past two years, and a +certain affliction which her father's fixity had given him concerning +her passed in the assurance of change which she herself gave him. + +She had changed her world, and grown to it, but her nature had not +changed. Even her look had not changed, and he told her how he had seen +his picture in her at the moment of their meeting in the street. They +all went in to verify his impression from the painting. “Yes, that is +the way you looked.” + +“It seems to me that is the way I felt,” she asserted. + +Frank went about the house-work, and left her to their guest. When +Whitwell came back from the post-office, where he said he would only be +gone a minute, he did not rejoin Westover and Cynthia in the parlor. + +The parlor door was shut; he had risked his fate, and they were talking +it over. Cynthia was not sure; she was sure of nothing but that there +was no one in the world she cared for so much; but she was not sure that +was enough. She did not pretend that she was surprised; she owned that +she had sometimes expected it; she blamed herself for not expecting it +then. + +Westover said that he did not blame her for not knowing her mind; he had +been fifteen years learning his own fully. He asked her to take all the +time she wished. If she could not make sure after all, he should always +be sure that she was wise and good. She told him everything there was +to tell of her breaking with Jeff, and he thought the last episode a +supreme proof of her wisdom and goodness. + +After a certain time they went for a walk in the warm summer moonlight +under the elms, where they had met on the avenue. + +“I suppose,” she said, as they drew near her door again, “that people +don't often talk it over as we've done.” + +“We only know from the novels,” he answered. “Perhaps people do, oftener +than is ever known. I don't see why they shouldn't.” + +“No.” + +“I've never wished to be sure of you so much as since you've wished to +be sure of yourself.” + +“And I've never been so sure as since you were willing to let me,” said +Cynthia. + +“I am glad of that. Try to think of me, if that will help my cause, as +some one you might have always known in this way. We don't really know +each other yet. I'm a great deal older than you, but still I'm not so +very old.” + +“Oh, I don't care for that. All I want to be certain of is that the +feeling I have is really--the feeling.” + +“I know, dear,” said Westover, and his heart surged toward her in his +tenderness for her simple conscience, her wise question. “Take time. +Don't hurry. Forget what I've said--or no; that's absurd! Think of it; +but don't let anything but the truth persuade you. Now, good-night, +Cynthia.” + +“Good-night--Mr. Westover.” + +“Mr. Westover!” he reproached her. + +She stood thinking, as if the question were crucial. Then she said, +firmly, “I should always have to call you Mr. Westover.” + +“Oh, well,” he returned, “if that's all!” + + +PG EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + + Boldest man is commonly a little behind a timid woman + Could not imagine the summer life of the place + Crimson which stained the tops and steeps of snow + Crimson torch of a maple, kindled before its time + Disposition to use his friends + Errors of a weak man, which were usually the basest + Exchanging inaudible banalities + Fear of asking too much and the folly of asking too little + Government is best which governs least + He might walk home with her if he would not seem to do so + He's the same kind of a man that he was a boy + Hollow hilarities which people use to mask their indifference + Honesty is difficult + I don't ever want to take the whip-hand + I suppose they must feel it + I sha'n't forget this very soon + If one must, it ought to be champagne + Insensate pride that mothers have in their children's faults + Intent upon some point in the future + Iron forks had two prongs + Jefferson + Joyful shame of children who have escaped punishment + Man that could be your friend if he didn't like you + Married Man: after the first start-off he don't try + No two men see the same star + Nothing in the way of sport, as people commonly understand it + Pathetic hopefulness + People whom we think unequal to their good fortune + Picture which, he said to himself, no one would believe in + Quiet but rather dull look of people slightly deaf + Society interested in a woman's past, not her future + Stupefied by a life of unalloyed prosperity and propriety + The great trouble is for the man to be honest with her + To be exemplary is as dangerous as to be complimentary + W'at you want letter for? Always same thing + Want something hard, don't you know; but I want it to be easy + We're company enough for ourselves + With all her insight, to have very little artistic sense + Women talked their follies and men acted theirs + World made up of two kinds of people + World seems to always come out at the same hole it went in at + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Landlord at Lion's Head, Complete +by William Dean Howells + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LANDLORD AT LION'S HEAD, *** + +***** This file should be named 4645-0.txt or 4645-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/6/4/4645/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |