Part 12 (1/2)
Mr. Meigs tried to mend matters by saying that he had promised Mrs.
Benson, you know, to look after her. There was that in Irene's manner that said she was not to be appropriated without leave. But the consciousness that her look betrayed this softened her at once towards Mr. Meigs, and decidedly improved his chances for the evening. The philosopher says that women are cruelest when they set out to be kind.
The supper was an 'al fresco' affair, the party being seated about on rocks and logs and shawls spread upon the gra.s.s near the farmer's house.
The scene was a very pretty one, at least the artist thought so, and Miss Lamont said it was lovely, and the Ashley girls declared it was just divine. There was no reason why King should not enjoy the chaff and merriment and the sunset light which touched the group, except that the one woman he cared to serve was enveloped in the attentions of Mr. Meigs. The drive home in the moonlight was the best part of the excursion, or it would have been if there had not been a general change of seats ordered, altogether, as Mr. King thought, for the accommodation of the Boston man. It nettled him that Irene let herself fall to the escort of Mr. Meigs, for women can always arrange these things if they choose, and he had only a melancholy satisfaction in the college songs and conundrums that enlivened the festive buckboard in which he was a pa.s.senger. Not that he did not join in the hilarity, but it seemed only a poor imitation of pleasure. Alas, that the tone of one woman's voice, the touch of her hand, the glance of her eye, should outweigh the world!
Somehow, with all the opportunities, the suit of our friend did not advance beyond a certain point. Irene was always cordial, always friendly, but he tried in vain to ascertain whether the middle-aged man from Boston had touched her imagination. There was a boating party the next evening in Frenchman's Bay, and King had the pleasure of pulling Miss Benson and Miss Lamont out seaward under the dark, frowning cliffs until they felt the ocean swell, and then of making the circuit of Porcupine Island. It was an enchanting night, full of mystery. The rock face of the Porcupine glistened white in the moonlight as if it were encrusted with salt, the waves beat in a continuous roar against its base, which is honeycombed by the action of the water, and when the boat glided into its shadow it loomed up vast and wonderful. Seaward were the harbor lights, the phosph.o.r.escent glisten of the waves, the dim forms of other islands; all about in the bay row-boats darted in and out of the moonlight, voices were heard calling from boat to boat, songs floated over the water, and the huge Portland steamer came plunging in out of the night, a blazing, trembling monster. Not much was said in the boat, but the impression of such a night goes far in the romance of real life.
Perhaps it was this impression that made her a.s.sent readily to a walk next morning with Mr. King along the bay. The sh.o.r.e is nearly all occupied by private cottages, with little lawns running down to the granite edge of the water. It is a favorite place for strolling; couples establish themselves with books and umbrellas on the rocks, children are dabbling in the coves, sails enliven the bay, row-boats dart about, the cawing of crows is heard in the still air. Irene declared that the scene was idyllic. The girl was in a most gracious humor, and opened her life more to King than she had ever done before. By such confidences usually women invite avowals, and as the two paced along, King felt the moment approach when there would be the most natural chance in the world for him to tell this woman what she was to him; at the next turn in the sh.o.r.e, by that rock, surely the moment would come. What is this airy nothing by which women protect themselves in such emergencies, by a question, by a tone, an invisible strong barrier that the most impetuous dare not attempt to break?
King felt the subtle restraint which he could not define or explain. And before he could speak she said: ”We are going away tomorrow.” ”We? And who are we?” ”Oh, the Simpkinses and our whole family, and Mr. Meigs.”
”And where?”
”Mr. Meigs has persuaded mother into the wildest scheme. It is nothing less than to leap from, here across all the intervening States to the White Sulphur Springs in Virginia. Father falls into the notion because he wants to see more of the Southerners, Mrs. Simpkins and her daughter are crazy to go, and Mr. Meigs says he has been trying to get there all his life, and in August the season is at its height. It was all arranged before I was consulted, but I confess I rather like it. It will be a change.”
”Yes, I should think it would be delightful,” King replied, rather absent-mindedly. ”It's a long journey, a very long journey. I should think it would be too long a journey for Mr. Meigs--at his time of life.”
It was not a fortunate remark, and still it might be; for who could tell whether Irene would not be flattered by this declaration of his jealousy of Mr. Meigs. But she pa.s.sed it over as not serious, with the remark that the going did not seem to be beyond the strength of her father.
The introduction of Mr. Meigs in the guise of an accepted family friend and traveling companion chilled King and cast a gloom over the landscape. Afterwards he knew that he ought to have dashed in and scattered this encompa.s.sing network of Meigs, disregarded the girl's fence of reserve, and avowed his love. More women are won by a single charge at the right moment than by a whole campaign of strategy.
On the way back to the hotel he was absorbed in thought, and he burst into the room where Forbes was touching up one of his sketches, with a fully-formed plan. ”Old fellow, what do you say to going to Virginia?”
Forbes put in a few deliberate touches, moving his head from side to side, and with aggravating slowness said, ”What do you want to go to Virginia for?”
”Why White Sulphur, of course; the most characteristic watering-place in America. See the whole Southern life there in August; and there's the Natural Bridge.”
”I've seen pictures of the Natural Bridge. I don't know as I care much”
(still contemplating the sketch from different points of view, and softly whistling) ”for the whole of Southern life.”
”See here, Forbes, you must have some deep design to make you take that att.i.tude.”
”Deep design!” replied Forbes, facing round. ”I'll be hanged if I see what you are driving at. I thought it was Saratoga and Richfield, and mild things of that sort.”
”And the little Lamont. I know we talked of going there with her and her uncle; but we can go there afterwards. I tell you what I'll do: I'll go to Richfield, and stay till snow comes, if you will take a dip with me down into Virginia first. You ought to do it for your art. It's something new, picturesque--negroes, Southern belles, old-time manners.
You cannot afford to neglect it.”
”I don't see the fun of being yanked all over the United States in the middle of August.”
”You want shaking up. You've been drawing seash.o.r.es with one figure in them till your pictures all look like--well, like Lamont and water.”
”That's better,” Forbes retorted, ”than Benson and gruel.”
And the two got into a huff. The artist took his sketch-book and went outdoors, and King went to his room to study the guide-books and the map of Virginia. The result was that when the friends met for dinner, King said:
”I thought you might do it for me, old boy.”
And Forbes replied: ”Why didn't you say so? I don't care a rap where I go. But it's Richfield afterwards.”
VIII. NATURAL BRIDGE, WHITE SULFUR