Part 42 (1/2)
”'They are Professor Holroyd's boilers,' I said, subduing a desire to beat Frisby with my telescope. 'Wait until Miss Holroyd sees this work.'
”'Don't she like yeller and red?' he demanded, anxiously.
”'You'll find out,' said I.
”Frisby gaped at his handiwork and then at his yellow dog. After a moment he mechanically spat on a clam-sh.e.l.l and requested Davy to 'sic' it.
”'Can't you comprehend that you have ruined our pleasure in the landscape?' I asked, more mildly.
”'I've got some green bills,' said Frisby; 'I kin stick 'em over the yeller ones--'
”'Confound it,' said I, 'it isn't the color!'
”'Then,' observed Frisby, 'you don't like them pills. I've got some bills of the ”Cropper Automobile” and a few of ”Bagley, the Gents'
Tailor”--'
”'Frisby,' said I, 'use them all--paste the whole collection over your dog and yourself--then walk off the cliff.'
”He sullenly unfolded a green poster, swabbed the boiler with paste, laid the upper section of the bill upon it, and plastered the whole bill down with a thwack of his brush. As I walked away I heard him muttering.
”Next day Daisy was so horrified that I promised to give Frisby an ultimatum. I found him with Freda, gazing sentimentally at his work, and I sent him back to the shop in a hurry, telling Freda at the same time that she could spend her leisure in providing Mr. Frisby with sand, soap, and a scrubbing-brush. Then I walked on to my post of observation.
”I watched until sunset. Daisy came with her father to hear my report, but there was nothing to tell, and we three walked slowly back to the house.
”In the evenings the professor worked on his volumes, the click of his type-writer sounding faintly behind his closed door. Daisy and I played chess sometimes; sometimes we played hearts. I don't remember that we ever finished a game of either--we talked too much.
”Our discussions covered every topic of interest: we argued upon politics; we skimmed over literature and music; we settled international differences; we spoke vaguely of human brotherhood. I say we slighted no subject of interest--I am wrong; we never spoke of love.
”Now, love is a matter of interest to ten people out of ten. Why it was that it did not appear to interest us is as interesting a question as love itself. We were young, alert, enthusiastic, inquiring. We eagerly absorbed theories concerning any curious phenomena in nature, as intellectual c.o.c.ktails to stimulate discussion. And yet we did not discuss love. I do not say that we avoided it. No; the subject was too completely ignored for even that. And yet we found it very difficult to pa.s.s an hour separated. The professor noticed this, and laughed at us. We were not even embarra.s.sed.
”Sunday pa.s.sed in pious contemplation of the ocean. Daisy read a little in her prayer-book, and the professor threw a cloth over his type-writer and strolled up and down the sands. He may have been lost in devout abstraction; he may have been looking for footprints. As for me, my mind was very serene, and I was more than happy. Daisy read to me a little for my soul's sake, and the professor came up and said something cheerful. He also examined the magazine of my Winchester.
”That night, too, Daisy took her guitar to the sands and sang one or two Basque hymns. Unlike us, the Basques do not take their pleasures sadly. One of their pleasures is evidently religion.
”The big moon came up over the dunes and stared at the sea until the surface of every wave trembled with radiance. A sudden stillness fell across the world; the wind died out; the foam ran noiselessly across the beach; the cricket's rune was stilled.
”I leaned back, dropping one hand upon the sand. It touched another hand, soft and cool.
”After a while the other hand moved slightly, and I found that my own had closed above it. Presently one finger stirred a little--only a little--for our fingers were interlocked.
”On the sh.o.r.e the foam-froth bubbled and winked and glimmered in the moonlight. A star fell from the zenith, showering the night with incandescent dust.
”If our fingers lay interlaced beside us, her eyes were calm and serene as always, wide open, fixed upon the depths of a dark sky. And when her father rose and spoke to us, she did not withdraw her hand.
”'Is it late?' she asked, dreamily.
”'It is midnight, little daughter.'
”I stood up, still holding her hand, and aided her to rise. And when, at the door, I said good-night, she turned and looked at me for a little while in silence, then pa.s.sed into her room slowly, with head still turned towards me.