Part 6 (1/2)

”And that isn't a fraud? I admire your distinctions.”

Saxton chewed his mustache and swallowed. He made her a low bow and said, in a tone of voice to flatten her out: ”I am glad Miss Smith finds something admirable in me!”

Mary's lip curled hard and contemptuous. It _was_ kiddish.

”There'd be plenty in you to admire if you let it have liberty,” she said. ”The trouble is that your follies seem worth it, to you.”

”Follies! You let me off lightly. Why not absurdities, idiocies?”

”Pick your name,” she said, throwing away her interest with a sweep of her hand.

”There is one folly you give me great cause to regret,” he answered her, his manhood coming back to him, ”but yet I never do.”

”Oh!” she jeered at him. ”You should renounce them all. If I understand your meaning, that is the least excusable--you have some reason for the others.”

Later I understood the cruelty of that speech. It was cruel to be kind, but it was mighty cruel and a doubtful kindness. It woke old Saxton up.

He took a breath and shook. He put a hand on her shoulder, standing straight and tall--a handsome, slim critter, if ever there lived one.

”Listen!” he said, quiet, but all of him in it. ”You shall care for me, just as I am--you understand? A fool, and a this, and a that--but you shall care.”

A look in her eyes--the kind of defy that grows of being scart--showed his talk wasn't all air.

But it went in a second, and she whirled on him. ”Why don't you advertise your intentions?” she demanded. ”If I had an idea I should be so persecuted--”

”Don't say persecuted, little girl,” he answered her softly. ”Let's be friends the rest of the trip. I'll trouble you no more,--by sea,” he finished, smiling.

She gripped the rail and looked out over the waters. Again her eyes turned to him for a second. He was worth it. That dark, long face of his, set off with his red neckerchief, made something for any woman to look at. And we're not always so darned fond of reasonable people as we make out.

”If only--” she began, then bit back whatever it was. ”Well, as you say,” she wound up, ”let us be friends. Isn't it foolish for us to quarrel so, Will?” she asked, turning to me. ”I think you must feel we're both ridiculous.”

”I don't care whether you are or not,” I said. ”I like you both.”

Saxton looked pleased 'way back in his dark eyes. ”That's the boy for my money!” he said. And then we three began to laugh.

”It's all too beautiful to quarrel in,” he said, waving an arm around.

”To feel sorrowful on such a day, savage or civilized, really is ridiculous.”

She couldn't help giving him one last jab,--I make a guess he turned happy too soon to please her. If she didn't like him, she liked somebody who so much resembled him that she wanted to have him around to remind her.

”Mr. Saxton's sorrows are soon healed,” she said. ”That's a valuable disposition.”

”I take _that_ as friendly, because I must,” said he, smiling in a way, as with the other things he did, that was beautiful in a fas.h.i.+on of its own. She tried to buck against it, to keep sneering; but something so young and joyful was in his face, she couldn't help smiling back at him.

So we walked the deck and talked about everything in the best of humors.

VII

”SAVE ME, ARTHUR!”

The first part of the _Matilda's_ trip slid by, day after day, like a happy dream. We had weather that couldn't be bettered; days of sunlight and pretty sailing breezes; nights picked out of heaven. The moon was in her glory. I like high land better than I do the ocean, but few sights can beat a full moon swelling over the glitter of water. There's also a snugness, a cozy, contented feeling, aboard a small boat, that you can't get elsewhere, except in a prairie camp. I suppose it's the contrast between so much s.p.a.ce of sky and land or water, where people are not, and the little spot where they are, that makes your partners rise in value.

Of course, the fact that it was my first cutaway puts a gilt edge on all that time, yet one other thing, a new thing, that made all my life different for me, must get its credit. That was music,--good music. Back home they weren't much in the musical line. I think I can remember when mother used to play the piano some, but her life soon jarred all that out of her. Bar here and there a man with a mouth-organ or a concertina, and a fiddler to do dance-tunes, the only thing that stood for music to me was the singing in father's church. I have since thought that anybody who could stand that once a week was certainly a good Christian. I remember one Sunday the preacher told us about heaven, and how it was a steady line of harps and hymn-tunes. I put in the rest of that Sunday bewildered. I didn't want to go to h.e.l.l, and after that description of heaven I wasn't anxious to go there, neither. Looked like the hereafter was dark and uncertain.