Part 5 (2/2)
At the age of twenty-seven, then, Timothy Sheridan possessed of an honorable name, health, wealth, good looks, and a very fair measure of intelligence, could consider himself sufficiently unenc.u.mbered by duties and responsibilities to indulge in the luxury of doing nothing whatever.
But somebody has said that no one can be thoroughly happy without finding something to be unhappy about; and the truth of the matter is that Mr. Sheridan was exceedingly gratified to discover that his heart was broken; though it need hardly be said that this was the last thing in the world he would ever have admitted. It was such a refres.h.i.+ngly new experience. His only fear was that he was not getting out of it all that some people claimed to feel. He checked up all his symptoms to make sure that he had the real disease. Sleeplessness, loss of appet.i.te, a longing for solitude-yes, he was quite sure that he had all these symptoms, and the satisfactory conclusion was that his heart was broken. He might really consider the matter settled. Now, what is the next thing to be done? Under the circ.u.mstances one should make no effort. One simply shunned society, amused oneself with solitary walks perhaps, looked on sceptically from afar at the insipid lives of other human beings, and made sweet melancholy a constant companion. But how long did one keep this up? The very fact that he could ask himself such a crudely practical question, made him feel rather uncomfortable; how could he even imagine the possibility of _wanting_ to do anything else?
He leaned back, and looked about him with an indifferent eye. From where he sat, he could see beyond the wall that enclosed the garden-a wall seven or eight feet high, its cracked plaster laced together by the strong black tendrils of the ivy-vine. If he turned his head he could see the whole length of Sheridan Lane. All the trees on Sheridan Lane had turned yellow, and the leaves strewing its cobblestones, looked like golden coins-the generous largess scattered in the progress of jovial King Autumn. Above the ma.s.s of frost-nipped foliage rose the rounded belfry of the old church, and underneath lay the double rows of pretty gardens all glowing with their asters and chrysanthemums.
Then, if he looked in front of him he saw those wine-tinted hills, rising beyond the gentle basin of the valley meadows, where the sun was melting the early morning frost, and scattering the light mists. Two men with leggins laced up to their st.u.r.dy knees, and carrying guns and game bags, were striding across the field, followed by their dogs. A glint of interest sparkled up in Mr. Sheridan's listless eyes.
”By Jove, I'll bet there's shooting here. I wonder if Peterson had the sense to pack my guns. I'll wire Phil to-night-” then he checked himself hastily. Such diversions were premature to say the least. But as he resumed his seat on the bench, his attention was attracted by another object. On the wall was something which had not been there when he had last looked in the direction of Sheridan Lane. Calmly planted on its broad flat top, with a pair of slender black-stockinged legs swinging, calmly polis.h.i.+ng off a monstrous scarlet apple on the front of a bright green sweater, sat a perfectly strange specimen of the condemned human race; and, what was more, it was unmistakably _feminine_. It was, in short, a girl of about fourteen years of age, though apparently not very tall for her years, with a dense mop of curly, reddish hair, a pair of uncommonly bright, and observant eyes, and the beaming hospitable smile of one who has the rare faculty of making herself thoroughly at home in any circ.u.mstances. Even Mr. Sheridan's cold and unmistakably hostile stare did not seem to make her feel that she was not welcome, or that she ought to offer any explanation for her presence. She looked at her apple, polished it some more, and at length fastened her sharp little teeth in its red cheek, biting off what seemed to be at least one half of the entire fruit.
After a pause, Mr. Sheridan said, with freezing courtesy,
”Is there anything I can do for you?”
”Oh, no,” said Jane, kindly. ”Nothing at all.” And until she had finished her apple, and flung the core with admirable markmans.h.i.+p against a tree at the other side of the road, silence reigned-the silence of indignation and helplessness on Mr. Sheridan's part, of serene composure on Jane's.
”I am just looking around,” she condescended to explain at last.
”I see,” said Mr. Sheridan politely. ”Do you know that you are trespa.s.sing?”
”Oh, yes. But that's all right. I'm always trespa.s.sing. I can't help it.
Out there-” she jerked her head in the direction of the fields, ”there are signs everywhere you go, 'No trespa.s.sing.' But by the time I come to 'em I've already been trespa.s.sing for miles, so I might as well go on.
Besides, I've often done it purposely just to see what would happen, but nothing ever does.” And having said this in a most rea.s.suring tone, she fished a second apple out of the pocket of her sweater and began to polish it as she had the first. To his horror, Mr. Sheridan saw that those green pockets were bulging.
”You'll make yourself ill,” he remarked.
”Oh, no. I never make myself ill,” said Jane.
”Are you going to eat _all_ those?” he demanded, pointing with his stick at her crammed pockets.
”Well, I could, easily,” said Jane, ”but you can have as many as you like. Catch.” And she pulled out a third apple, and tossed it to him. He caught it; but feeling that it was not dignified even to pretend that he wanted it, he laid it down beside him on the bench.
”Try it,” said Jane, ”it's a good one. It's still wet, because I just picked it up. Mr. Webster has millions, and he _said_ I could take all I wanted. Here, I'll dry it for you if you don't want to get your handkerchief all wet.”
”Thank you,” said Mr. Sheridan, ”I don't believe I care for it just now.”
Another silence. Then as if the idea had just occurred to her, Jane said almost with alarm,
”_You_ don't mind my trespa.s.sing, do you, Mr. Sheridan?”
”How did you know my name?” he asked in surprise, and at the same time, feeling a trifle flattered. Like most people he was vain enough to be pleased when anyone seemed to know who he was without being told.
”Oh, I recognized you.”
”Recognized me? When did you-”
”By your stick. Miss Lily said that you had a stick, and that you were youngish.”
”Oh.” A brief pause, during which Mr. Sheridan did not look displeased.
Jane, who never missed a change of expression, felt that she had hit upon a happy thread of conversation, and she ventured to commence another apple.
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