Читать книгу Her Lord and Master - Martha Morton - Страница 12

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"The blossoms are commencing to fall," said Mrs. Stillwater, shaking three or four petals off her work. Her hands were never idle, and they were now manipulating some fleecy white wool. "What a pity it can't always be like this—the trees look so beautiful. I could content myself here all summer—"

"Well, I won't say that," said Mrs. Bunker. "There's no place hotter on earth, than Indiana in summer. But if it would always be as pleasant as now—I like the seashore in July—"

"You mean," interrupted Stillwater, lying under a low-spreading apple tree, with a handkerchief spread over his face, "that you like the 'life' at the seashore. There's no affinity between you and the ocean that I know of."

"Well, have it that way, if you will. I like 'the life at the seashore.'"

Mrs. Bunker looked defiantly up from the red rose which she was embroidering, with a little less energy perhaps, than in the morning. "Particularly, as we are buried alive in the Adirondacks during August, September and October."

"Buried alive?"

"Buried alive!" Mrs. Bunker looked around triumphantly, enjoying the sensation her words had occasioned. Indiana had thrown down her book which she was reading, lying on her back. Glen stopped thrumming pensive snatches of melody. Mrs. Stillwater gave her mother a startled glance and Stillwater threw the handkerchief from his face and raised himself to a sitting posture.

"Well, I never saw such a woman! Buried alive! Buried—why, you have the camp filled with company. Didn't I have to put up tents for them last year; the place looked as if there was an army bivouacing on it—"

"Oh, yes; I can make a good time for myself wherever I am—but when we're alone there—it's so still, I'm afraid of the sound of my own voice, and jump for joy if I see a chipmunk peeping out of its hole. There's something spry about them, at all attempts. The natives would do well to imitate them. Such a slow lot—and those guides with their drawling voices. The world just stops, when you get up to the Adirondacks."

"I'm never so happy," remarked Glen, "as when I'm in the forests and on those lakes. It's the real thing. City life goes against my grain, somehow."

"I always feel quite natural in the woods," said Indiana. "Just as though I belonged there, with the other wild things."

"When did those English friends of yours say they were coming up, grandma?" inquired Mr. Stillwater, in a muffled voice, having again taken shelter under the handkerchief, after recovering from the last of the many shocks he was in the habit of receiving from his mother-in-law.

"They said September, but I have a shrewd idea they'll get tired of travelling before then. They may arrive the latter part of August. They'll be glad to see a little home life once more."

"Friends of yours, Mrs. Bunker?" inquired Glen, with a slight frown.

"Yes; Lord Canning and his uncle, Lord Nelson Stafford. They belong to a representative noble English family. I met them at Cannes last year—"

"Lord Canning is a very distinguished looking gentleman," said Mrs. Stillwater.

"His face inspires trust, if I'm not mistaken," remarked her husband.

"I promised to show him the sights," said Indiana, with a mischievous smile.

"How kind and disinterested of you," remarked Glen, in a very sarcastic voice.

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Indiana.

"I mean you intended to make an impression on him, by the time you were through with the sights," answered Glen, with a pale face.

"And supposing I did," said Indiana, provokingly. "It wouldn't be the first time I have made an impression, nor will it be the last."

"Oh, well, I suppose you must have someone to flirt with," said Glen, resignedly.

"Now, children, don't quarrel! You know what that New York oracle said: 'Rest and quiet.'"

"I never flirted with you," said Indiana.

"I should hope not," answered Glen, in a very dignified manner.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I intend to be taken seriously, or not at all."

They all gasped at this temerity from such an unexpected quarter. Stillwater peeped at Indiana from under the corner of his handkerchief.

"No man has ever yet dictated to me," said Indiana, majestically.

"It's more than I'd do," murmured Stillwater.

"Men are generally only too glad if I will tolerate them on any terms," continued Indiana.

"Well, I'm not like others; but never mind, Indiana—that's true enough—I ought to be glad to be tolerated on any terms." He smiled resignedly around on the circle. He was afraid he had gone too far. At all events, their little skirmishes generally ended this way. Indiana felt a slight misgiving as she took up her book again. Glen, her slave and comrade, was one person, but Glen, who wished to be taken seriously, with a pale set face and glowing eyes, was another.

"What are you making, ma?" inquired Stillwater.

"A little woolen cape, with a darling hood attached, for Indiana. Just to put on her when she's roaming after dinner in the mountains. It's so chilly there, when the sun goes down."

"You're always making something for her," said Stillwater.

"She's the best mother I ever had," remarked Indiana, proudly fingering her little dimity skirt.

Mrs. Stillwater blushed with happiness, and looked with almost tearful love on this child, who showed such unparalleled appreciation of her mother's efforts.

"Sing 'My Georgia Lady Love,' Glen!" said Mrs. Bunker.

Glen struck a few notes on his mandolin and sang in a very pleasing baritone.

"My Georgia Lady Love, my Southern Queen,

How your brown eyes do shine like stars above,

There's not a girl can equal you,

My Georgia Lady Love—Love."

"Kitty, you were never so welcome in your life," said Stillwater, as Kitty appeared with the tea-tray. She was followed by a farm-hand carrying a table and a camp-stool. Mrs. Bunker seated herself, and commenced pouring out the tea.

"Go ahead with the second verse, Glen!"

"One day I said, 'I love you, Sue,

Believe me, gal, I will be true.'

She slowly dropped her head,

And then she softly said:

'Mister Johnson, 'deed I loves you too.

My Georgia Lady Love, my Southern Queen."

"There's a circus to-night," volunteered Kitty.

"Circus!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunker.

"Oh, I want to go," said Indiana.

"Let's stuff the big hay wagon full of straw and pillows," cried Mrs. Bunker. "It's full moon; we'll have a grand ride, eh, Ratio?"

Ratio looked visibly delighted.

"Well, you know what he said, 'Rest and quiet.'"

"Pa, you're forever quoting that old mummy," said Indiana. "He's like the ghost in Hamlet. It's settled; we'll go."

"Well, what's the matter, Kitty? Got anything on your mind?"

"No, sir; but Jim Tuttle's invited me to the circus, and I'd like to go, if the ladies don't object."

"Not at all, not at all," said Stillwater, with an amiable wave of his hand. Kitty left the orchard in high glee.

"She did well to ask you, instead of me, sly thing," said Mrs. Bunker. "That girl's too fond of pleasure."

"Now grandma—we were young ourselves, once."

"Speak for yourself, Ratio. I'm going to the kitchen to make some taffy. There's just enough time for it to cool. We'll take it along and give it to all the youngsters."

"Well, ma, there's a nice breeze blowing, the sun's going down. What do you say to a short spin?"

"Yes, father."

"Well, get ready. I'll have the buckboard here in five minutes." He rose, shaking off the blossoms which powdered his coat like snow.

"There's some on your hair, ma; they're so pretty."

Indiana rose lazily from the grass, also shaking off a shower of blossoms, and leaned against a low-spreading apple tree, extending her arms on the branches each side of her.

Glen gazed at her, still thrumming his mandolin.

"Do you think you'll come to Narragansett with us, this summer?" said Indiana, looking idly up through the branches.

"What for?" said Glen, gloomily. "To see you dance and flirt with a lot of—of simpering idiots."

Indiana laughed. Every time she moved, the blossoms fell upon her shoulders, neck and hair.

"Don't you like me to enjoy myself?"

"Not with other men."

"Oh, that's selfish!"

"Maybe," said Glen.

There was silence, broken only by the thrumming of the mandolin and the twitter of birds from the recesses of the trees.

"It's sad, the way those blossoms fall on you, Indiana."

Indiana shook the branches, and peeped out laughing through the thick shower which followed.

"You look like a part of the tree," said Glen. "Like a wood-sprite, a Dryad—or something."

"Or something," said Indiana, "is very illustrative to the mind."

"I like you best as you are here about the farm," continued Glen, watching her steadily with his dark eyes, and continuing his eternal thrumming. "Just as you are now, in that simple dress your mother made for you, with your hair hanging like that—I always liked your hair hanging—do you remember, Indiana?"

"Yes, you always liked it, Glen."

"It went rather hard with me, when you first put it up, and wore long dresses. It seemed as though that were going to be the end of all our good times."

"But it wasn't, Glen?"

"No; you were the same old Indiana, although you looked more—the woman. Then you discovered your own power, and you took to breaking hearts. You were very apt at that business, for one so young."

"You forget," said Indiana, with a sly smile, "there was Grandma Chazy."

"That's true. An old soldier in camp put you on to all the principal maneuvers."

They both laughed, looking around cautiously, like naughty children, as though Mrs. Bunker might be hiding somewhere among the trees.

"I fought shy of you for awhile, then—I was young and unworldly." From Glen's seriously reminiscent expression, he might have been looking back upon another self of twenty or thirty years ago. "And I could not justify your practices at that time. I don't know whether you noticed the difference in me?"

"Only that you made yourself scarce when there was anyone else around."

"I accepted the inevitable after a while; but when I see you in the midst of a crowd of men, dealing out dances and smiles, you appear to me like some stranger, with a marvellous resemblance to a girl I once played with, called Indiana. Here, in the country, and up in the Adirondacks you are the real Indiana."

"That's nonsense! We can't be girl and boy forever. There's something else in life—I suppose."

"What?" said Glen.

"I don't know," answered Indiana impatiently, "but it's individual. People must discover it for themselves—"

"Have you?" asked Glen.

"No," answered Indiana.

"I have," said Glen.

"Tell me."

"Not now."

"This sort of life is all very well, but in order to develop, one must see the world, must be of the world. I don't believe in a groove."

"Your mother did," said Glen.

"How can you compare me to ma? She's the old-fashioned type, bless her heart!"

"Look at this day," said Glen irrelevantly. "I believe in enjoying what we have. This is one day out of life. There'll never be another like this—not just like this. The blossoms are going—"

"They'll come again, next year," said Indiana.

"Yes, but we may be different, that's the trouble. I'd like to keep this day—everything is so young and tender and spring-like—and you're part of it all. The sun sinking over there; the rosy clouds above our heads—there's a soft, pink light on the whole orchard—it's shining down, through the branches, on your face. I wish there was an artist—the best in the world—living hereabouts. I'd jump on my wheel, and bring him in a trice, with his color-box and his canvas. But it would be even too late—to catch this light. I'd have him paint the whole thing with you in the foreground, among the blossoms—that glow on your face. I'd call the picture, 'Indiana.'"

[Illustration: "I'd call the picture, 'Indiana.'"

(missing from book)]

"And you, Glen? You wouldn't be in it at all."

"I'd own the picture," said Glen.

A slight breeze swept through the orchard, bringing a snowy shower from the trees. There was a tinkling of bells, not far away.

"The cows have just come home," said Indiana. "Glen, what will you do with yourself this summer, if you don't go with us to Narragansett?"

"I'll stay with the folks, till you all go up to the camp. Then I'll join you on our old hunting grounds—if you want me—"

"Why!" exclaimed Indiana. "It wouldn't seem like the Adirondacks, if you weren't there."

Glen smiled gratefully.

"How are the folks?"

"Well, thanks. They were talking about you, to-day."

"I'll ride over there to-morrow."

"They'll be glad to see you. They love you just—just like a daughter."

"I like people to love me," said Indiana.

"So do I," answered Glen. He gazed around him. Nature so beautifully revealed just then, inspired him to speak. "There are not many days like this," he thought, "and now, it is measured by moments. Before it is over I will tell her!" He leaned over his mandolin, watching a little brown bug struggle through the grass, then he gazed upward. The rosy light still lingered on the orchard.

"Before it fades, I will ask her." Stillwater's caution recurred to him. "'Don't spring anything on Indiana!' He didn't make allowances for a moment like this," thought Glen. "He didn't think it was going to be such a day." He was very pale, and his fingers shook slightly as they laid the mandolin down on the grass.

"Do you think you could love me, Indiana?" he said, simply.

"Why, I've loved you all my life, Glen."

"I don't mean that way, Indiana." He took up his mandolin again, nervously.

"I don't know any other way, Glen," she answered, pitifully.

"Not now; but don't you think you could?"

"No, Glen."

"Try me; let's be engaged for a little while, then if you can't love me—"

"Glen, it's no use—I've known you too long."

"Indiana, you don't know what you're saying—you're killing me, Indiana!"

"Glen! Glen!" She threw herself down beside him, and smoothed and patted his hair, soothing him as though he had fallen and hurt himself. He seized her hands, and held them tightly.

"Life means nothing to me, without you, Indiana—you're the key to it. Look here; suppose I was given a beautiful book to read, in a foreign language—the greatest ever written—it would be mere print, wouldn't it? But suppose someone translated it for me, and all its beauty became suddenly revealed. You translate life for me that way, Indiana; don't you understand?"

"Yes, yes, Glen. But if I marry you, that will be the end. You're too much a part of the old life—"

"The old life, Indiana? Isn't that the best life?"

"Not for me."

"You don't know what you're saying. If I live to be a hundred, I want to live true to the old life, to the old ideals and the old truths, even the simple ones I learned at home, when I was a little lad."

"You're a good fellow, Glen; shake hands with me!"

"Won't you think about it, Indiana?"

"No, dear! I hate to say it—but I want to be straight with you. Something tells me it's not the right thing for us to marry. Don't say any more—don't try to persuade me—it's no use."

"All right, Indiana."

"Don't look like that, Glen! you'll break my heart. Life isn't over for you, because—of this. It's a beautiful world still—look at the blossoms, look at the day!"

"It's not the same," said Glen, holding his hand to his eyes. "It'll never be the same."

"Oh, yes, it will, dear; after a while. I don't want to lose you, Glen; you'll be my dear old friend still. Say you will!"

"Do you remember when I went to the war, Indiana? You gave me a lock of your hair, and I carried it over my heart. It was a charm, a little yellow lock—it brought me back to you alive. You cried when you gave it to me, and said, 'God keep you, Glen!'"

"And I say it now! Wherever we both happen to be, until I die, 'God keep you, Glen!'" She broke down, and sobbed on his breast.

He smoothed her hair mechanically, murmuring, "A little yellow lock—I carried it over my heart, always. They might have found it if I hadn't come back. I wish that I hadn't, now—I wish that I hadn't!"

"Glen! What are you saying?" She held her hand over his mouth. "We'll go on just the same; you mustn't say anything to the others. We'll keep our own secret, and you'll come to the camp this August?"

"It'll never be the same," repeated Glen, monotonously.

Suddenly they heard the sound of wheels, and Stillwater's voice shouting to Jim Tuttle.

"I must be getting home," said Glen stupidly, like a person just awakened from sleep.

"Why, aren't you going to the circus, Glen?"

"Circus?"

"Don't break up the party!"

"All right, Indiana."

It was not a merry circus party, as far as the younger members were concerned, but the others were lively, and failed to see anything strange in their behaviour. Indiana asked someone to dare her to jump down in the ring, and ride better than the lady equestrian, but they all wisely refrained from doing so. Glen sat in the center of the wagon and tinkled his mandolin faithfully, for the amusement of the party. They dropped him at his own gate, to which they drove, singing hilariously, Kitty bringing up the rear in a buggy with Jim Tuttle.

"Hello, neighbor Stillwater!" called a voice from one of the farm-house windows.

"It's father," said Glen.

"Hello, Masters!"

"Is this what you call 'rest and quiet?'"

"Well, I don't believe in too much of a good thing; good-night."

"Good-night; good luck to you all."

"Merrily we roll along," sang Mrs. Bunker.

Glen leaned against the gate after they had gone, listening to their voices in the distance.

"Have a good time, Glen?"

"Yes, father!"

The window closed. Glen laughed bitterly, leaning against the gate; then the laugh changed to a sob.

"I don't want much, I ask so little, dear God; only Indiana."