True to a Type Volume Ii Part 6

"They are most welcome," cried Rose, impatiently. "Do not let us bother about them any more." There was an angry colour in her cheek, and fire in her eye, and the sound of her voice grated harshly.

Lettice began to wonder if her story had been judicious, or well-timed. She was Rose's stanch friend and partisan, willing to do or think whatever Rose might like best. It was in espousing Rose's side that she felt hostile to Gilbert; but she began to doubt, now, if what she had been telling appeared to Rose as droll as to herself. And yet every one said that Rose had such a sense of humour!

There was silence between the friends. They no longer sauntered, but stepped out quickly, Rose hurrying the pace with strides of varying length, till Lettice had difficulty in keeping up with her. Each fibre of her frame was strung into fierce activity. She even s.n.a.t.c.hed the fan, hanging idly from her waist, as if its dangling were a provocation. She opened and closed it rudely once or twice, till some of the slender ribs gave way and got entangled; then, with an impatient gesture, caught it by both ends and broke the thing across, and flung it from her. And then she stopped, with the empty chain between her fingers, and turned to her companion with a short, dry laugh.

"You will say I am in one of my tempers, Lettie, dear. You are good to bear with me.... You are out of breath, too. Come, let's walk slower.

I have something to tell you."

"Something nice, Rose? What is it, dearest?"

"Pray, not that tender sympathetic tone, Lettice, 'an you love me,' as they say in the theatre, or you will drive me wild. What is there to condole about?... Nothing that I can see. If people who are strangers to me--whom I have said a hundred times I will have none of--want to marry, what is it to me?"

"Nothing, dear, nothing," Lettice answered soothingly. "Nothing whatever to you."

"It is less than nothing; for I am going to be married myself--at least I am engaged. Wish me joy, dear. You are the first to be told."

"You are? I knew you would be, from the first. You liked him the first day you saw him. Indeed I wish you happiness. I am quite sure you will be happy, dear." And they embraced; or Lettice did, at least. Rose submitted rather than joined in the caress, and there was a look of deep self-pity in her face, as if she doubted about the happiness which her friend foretold. Her eyes moistened, and then, with a start which was half a sob, she recovered herself, and put her arm through her friend's, and turned homewards.

"And how did it happen, dear? Tell me all about it."

"The usual way, dear; though people do say these things are never done twice alike. You have some experience, yourself, about it, I fancy; though you are so good to the poor fellows, that you never betray them, or divulge their disappointment."

"It is bad enough for them to be refused, without being laughed at into the bargain.... But tell me about the accepting, at least. I have no experience of that. Is it not hard to say yes, and not feel the least bit ashamed of one's self?"

"One does not remember one's own part in the tragedy so well. One grows bewildered at such a time. I am not sure that one knows exactly what one says or does. But the gentleman seems to understand. That is the main point."

"And what did _he_ say then?... I declare, Rose, you are telling me nothing!"

"He said scarcely anything. I did not think a man could say so little, to mean so much. It was the way he did it--the way he was so still--the sound of his voice--his touch. He meant it all, Lettie, so deeply. It was in that he was so strong. One seemed to feel it in the air about him. It was overwhelming. And oh, dear, I feel so small and worthless beside the earnestness of that man's love! I feel humbled, I am so little worthy of love like his."

"The proof that you are worthy, is his having given it to you.... I declare!" The last exclamation had escaped her involuntarily. Her roving eyes had alighted on the figures of Gilbert Roe and Maida Springer together upon the sands at a distance.

Rose lifted her eyes from the ground, which they had sought while she was making her confidences, and turned them in the direction to which Lettice was looking. She saw, and the view communicated a shock, which thrilled through all her frame. Again her colour rose, and her teeth were set, and she grasped the arm of her friend. The pathetic drooping of her eyelids had vanished, and the lights beneath them flashed like living coals. She said nothing, but she quickened her steps--they had turned, some time before, when her mood had changed from fiery to pathetic--and now they were back within the shadow of the hotel, extending itself to the eastward and the south as day declined.

Upon the gallery, along beyond the entrance, she saw Joseph Naylor, with his feet on the bal.u.s.ters and his chair tilted back, a newspaper before him and a cigar between his teeth, enjoying the tranquil afternoon. "I shall go in now, Lettice, dear; but do not let me drag you indoors so early. There is something I wanted to mention to Mr Naylor, and there he is, above and disengaged."

Lettice strolled away and soon found other company. Rose hurried forward alone, her eyes still flas.h.i.+ng and her cheek aflame. There was no one on the gallery but Naylor, no one on the ground below looking up or taking heed; the moment was as private as though they had been again on Fessenden's Island.

"I fear I vexed you this morning in the boat," she said, coming upon him unexpectedly where he sat.

He looked up from his paper, let it fall, and sprang to his feet, throwing his cigar away. "Impossible, my dearest, even if you were to try. You have made me the very happiest man alive."

"But I was cross, though I did not mean it, and refused to take off my glove. It is off now. There!" and she held out her hand. "I have been looking for an opportunity to make it up. I was sleepy and out of sorts, I think."

"No wonder, with no bed to sleep in last night. But do not dream of apologising. You shall be cross with me whenever it so shall please you, and not a word to be said in amends when you are minded to relent."

"You will spoil me; it is not safe to be too wors.h.i.+pful with women.

There is the finger you were good enough to want to measure."

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE MOTHERS.

Joseph was a happy man that evening. He was going to testify for the first time the pride and glory within him, by presenting a _cadeau_ to his promised bride. How should he contrive that it might be rich and rare enough to express his wors.h.i.+p, and be worthy of the object? Could he have fetched down a star--one of those which last night had beamed so kindly on their espousal--that might perhaps have been enough; but less than a star out of heaven seemed all inadequate. The writing-room of the hotel was too open and profane a place for him to sit in, while he indited his order to Tiffany the jeweller, for such a purpose. He made them carry store of stationery to his room. And then about the post. Did no mail go out to-night? The clerk reminded him rebukingly that it was Sunday. They never sent to the Junction on Sunday nights, and no one in serious-minded New England would wish them to do it.

"Ten dollars for a messenger to go at once," was Joseph's sole reply, as he followed the stationery to his room, to be overtaken before he had gone many steps by the porter and the bell-boy, both eager to break the Sabbath at the price he had named.

Senator Deane, lounging by the clerk's desk, turned to Mr Sefton with a remarkably knowing look. "Canada Pacific. You bet! Something up.

Telegraph clerk away for the day. Something important."

Sapphires, diamonds, and precious stones danced before the mind's eye of Joseph Naylor. How pale and small and poor they seemed to him! How could enough of them to testify his love, be collected on so trivial an object as a finger-ring? "Spare no expense," he wrote, offering an unusual price, and expressing his willingness to double it if needful.

"Only let it be the best." The ring from Cleopatra's finger would have been too poor. And so the order was sent, and Tiffany of New York, having a.s.sured himself of the writer's sufficiency, sent a clerk with designs to wait on so lavish-minded a client.

The clerk arrived in due time, was closeted in long consultation, and on leaving could not but mention to the clerk of the house the princely order he had taken. The house-clerk listened with pride. It was a credit to Clam Beach; and in fancy he saw scores of fas.h.i.+onable damsels arriving with heaps of luggage, all hoping to be objects of a like munificence. He mentioned the circ.u.mstance, in confidence, to each male guest who came to him for cigar-lights; the males, as was to be expected, repeated it to the females, and soon there was not a soul in the house who had not heard the news. It was the common talk with every one but Joseph. He, good man, never doubted the closeness of his secret. He had not breathed a word, but to his sister-in-law, and she would not circulate the report. She had been behaving to him like an injured woman ever since his telling her; but she had not lost hope, he suspected, promising herself, on the contrary, that it would end in nothing; and therefore would not help to a.s.sure it by spreading the news.

Those were happy days for Joseph. What plunging in the early bracing surf! What morning walks upon the sands! What shady lounges in the afternoon! And then the cheerful evenings in the parlours, or the quiet of the galleries on starlit nights! He was with her continually, drinking in sweet influence from her presence, and striving to attune himself to her changeful moods.

Yes; her moods were certainly becoming very changeful--liable to abrupt transitions from a stillness which seemed almost despondent, and so different from anything he had seen in her before their engagement, to a gaiety which at times grew feverish and even forced.

She had grown restless, too, of late, unable or unwilling to remain long in one place, or engaged in one pursuit. Suddenly, in the hottest of the afternoon, she would start up and rouse her drowsy intimates to play lawn-tennis; and ere the game was half played out, she would declare herself sick of it, and beg some bystander to take her place.

Joseph looked on in tender sympathy. It was what was to be expected, he told himself, and would soon wear off. The free young life was chafing at first beneath the yoke she had herself a.s.sumed--the filly, unbroke to harness, was galled by the collar; but soon she would settle down to steady running. He must humour her for the present. And what delight there was in doing it! And she was always kind to him, and showed that she appreciated his thoughtfulness and forbearance by many a grateful look and little speech. He only wished that he had more to bear and to do for her sake; he was so richly rewarded when the humour changed, and her mood became remorseful. Then, as if she could not sufficiently express herself to him, she would relieve her feelings by caresses and endearments to his nieces. She was fast friends with them now, especially with Margaret, even to the length of exciting a little pique in Lettice Deane.

And Margaret had need of sympathy and backing, and all the friends.h.i.+p she could secure. Her mother "was going on just dreadful," as she expressed it with more force than elegance to her sister Lucy, who, however, observed a judicious neutrality, agreeing so far with the maternal desire to settle Margaret in Toronto, as being a much jollier place for herself to live in than Jones's Landing.

Mrs Naylor's perturbation of spirit on receiving her brother's intelligence lasted two full days, during which there seemed nothing else worth thinking about. The world itself seemed coming to an end, and what did anything matter? After that, it began to occur to her that there were other interests in life--her own, for instance. If Joseph was going to bring home a wife to Jones's Landing, the place would be insupportable. She must remove to Ottawa or Toronto; and that she might do her duty there in bringing out Lucy properly--so she phrased it to herself in summoning her moral forces to her a.s.sistance--it was indispensable that Margaret should have an established position. With that, it began to strike her that Wilkie no longer hovered near them, and that Ann Petty was become the recipient of the attentions which last week had been bestowed on Margaret. His mother, even, it almost seemed, had begun to hold aloof; and yet the supposition was too preposterous. That a half-bred old thing like that, should think to take up and lay down at pleasure, her--Mrs Naylor of Jones's Landing! What were things coming to? The creature must have heard of Joseph's fatuous engagement--the mercenary, horrid, vulgar old woman! And she was vulgar. Mrs Naylor saw it clearly enough now, though last week she had looked quite kindly on her social solecisms as being so racy and original. But at least she was not so crushed and humbled yet that "the Wilkie woman" might trample on her with impunity. The creature should have a lesson, if Mrs Naylor could give her one, and be taught her place. To think that a Naylor--a daughter of hers--should be trifled with and all but compromised by a--a what was she to call him?--a clerk in a public office--something not much better than a schoolmaster--merely because she, the mother, had kindly taken some notice of him! That nice quiet young Petty must be brought on, if only to show the futility of such an idea.

Encouragement was all he wanted, and Margaret should give him that, or she would know why. She did not blame the girl now for being impervious to the other--indeed, his mother's impertinence had made her glad of it--but she would insist on her being civil to Petty.

There must be no more nonsense. As for the old woman, she must have it out with her, and let her know her place.

An opportunity arose in the heat of the afternoon, when some irrepressibles of the younger set played lawn-tennis, and such of the elders as were not asleep looked on. The shade at that hour was confined to a limited s.p.a.ce, and thither the lady spectators carried their camp-stools, and pressed one another more closely than the state of the weather made quite agreeable. Mrs Wilkie was the last to place herself, and it happened that she took ground at Mrs Naylor's side, who had planned her place nicely, to be in shadow, and yet be the last of her row, so as to be free at least on one side.

"Mrs Wilkie?" she said, turning in surprise and displeasure, which she made no attempt to conceal. "Would you not be more comfortable farther back? It is less crowded, and the shadow is broader."

"I'll do," Mrs Wilkie answered determinedly, unfurling an umbrella, which interfered considerably with Mrs Naylor's view. "If people would sit closer, there would be room enough. I see no reason for leading people to sit behind, and those of no poseetion at all taking room for two."

"But your umbrella intercepts any little air there is."

"I need it to keep off the sun."

"I declare I shall suffocate! Pray take it down."

"I won't! Why should I? Sit behind there; or go round to the front of the house. You'll get it all to yourself."

"Really--Mrs Wilkie--but what else can one expect?" and she sighed with contemptuous resignation.

Mrs Wilkie bridled, with a little snort, moved her stool an inch or two nearer, and held the umbrella in provoking proximity to Mrs Naylor's eye.