Part 19 (1/2)
Winifred had almost forgotten her companion for the moment in her thoughts of the past; but as he rubbed his hand across his forehead in the effort to recall something, she mistook the gesture for a sign of weariness, and reproached herself for her egotistical garrulity.
”I do wish,” she said hastily, ”that there were some way out of this unlucky matter,--some way which would not send you back so unseasonably.”
”Never mind that,” Flint answered; ”my vacation was almost at an end, anyway. I am really needed now at the office of the 'Trans-Continental.'”
”The 'Trans-Continental'?” echoed Winifred. ”Do you work on that magazine?”
”Yes, I do a little writing for it occasionally.”
”Then perhaps you know the editor--the chief editor, I mean.”
”Yes, he is a friend of mine.”
”I envy you the privilege of calling such a man your friend. Oh, you may smile if you choose, but perhaps, after all, you do not know him as well as I do. I have never seen him, I don't even know his name, and yet I have a clear picture of him in my mind. And he has been so kind--so good to me. His letters have helped me more than he will ever know.” Here a sudden thought seemed to strike the girl, and she lifted beseeching eyes to his face.
”You won't try to make him dislike me, will you? I know you never did like me. I saw it the first time we met, when I was driving that wretched colt, and we ran over your fis.h.i.+ng-rod, and then, the next day on the pond, and ever since, things have steadily kept going wrong between us. So, of course, it would be quite natural for you to talk about it all to him; and then he would never like me any more, and I do want him to.”
For an instant Flint felt a mad desire to keep up the illusion; but he himself was too much shaken to have played his part if he would.
”Miss Anstice,” he said, ”_I_ am the editor of the 'Trans-Continental.'”
Without another word, he swung himself down by the pine-bough to the gravelly beach, and, pus.h.i.+ng off the dory, slipped out over the same moonlit course which Leonard had travelled. Winifred watched him till his boat had rounded the Point; then she turned back to the camp-fire in a daze. Do what she would, she could not shake off the spell of those last words: ”_I_ am the editor of the 'Trans-Continental.'”
CHAPTER XI
THE POINT OF VIEW
_Extract from the Journal of Miss Susan Standish. Nepaug, August First._
[_From which it will appear that contemporary journals are not always trustworthy._]
This August weather is really unbearable. n.o.body but flies can be happy in it, and they are part of the general misery. I sleep with a handkerchief over my face to keep off the pests; but I invariably wake to find one perching on every unprotected spot, and the others buzzing about my ears, and making such a noise that I can't sleep a wink after five o'clock.
It is a very long time between five o'clock and breakfast. It would be a sufficient incentive to a blameless life, to know beforehand that you were to be condemned to think over your past for three mortal hours every morning.
This is what I do; and though I suppose I have been as respectable as most people, I find cold s.h.i.+vers running down my back when I remember some things, and the blushes of a girl of sixteen mounting to my wrinkled forehead, when I think of others. On the whole, the silly things are the worst. I think at the Judgment Day I would rather answer up to my sins than my sillinesses--especially if my relatives were waiting round. The only way I can turn my thoughts out of the uncomfortable reminiscent channel which they make for themselves at five o'clock in the morning, is to think as hard as I can about somebody else. Lately, I don't find this so difficult; for our household here at Nepaug includes some interesting people, and, moreover, some very queer things have happened lately, I thank Heaven, I have none of Dr. Cricket's curiosity; but I should be ashamed if I were so indifferent to those about me as not to take an interest in their concerns. This interest has led me of late to ponder on recent events, and speculate as to their causes.
When I asked some very simple and natural questions of Winifred Anstice, she snapped at me like a snapping-turtle; but I did not discontinue my investigation on that account. On the contrary, I resolved to be all the more watchful; and when it comes to putting two and two together, there are few who have a more mathematical mind than Susan Standish.
On Friday evening, we had a picnic supper at Eagle Rock.
Mr. Flint (superior as usual) preferred to go in the only society which interests him, and therefore set off _alone_ in his dory. His absence did not have any visibly depressing effect on the party in the sail-boat. Winifred was at her very best; and Philip Brady seemed to appreciate her. If I were a matchmaker, I should have tried to throw them together, for they do seem just cut out for each other; in spite of all my efforts to give them opportunities of making each other's acquaintance on intimate terms, they never appeared to take advantage of them. But on Friday it was different. In the first place, anything more warm-blooded than an oyster must have fallen in love with Winifred at first sight on that evening. She wore a white flannel yachting-dress, and a red-felt hat c.o.c.ked up on one side, and as she stood against the sail in the sunset, she was--Well, I'm too old to be silly; but really that girl is something worth looking at when she is nice. To-day, she looked like a frump, and talked like a fury.
The wind on Friday died out soon after we started; and at one time I was afraid Mr. Flint would have the satisfaction of getting to the Point before us; but, providentially, it sprang up again and, indeed, I need not have worried, for it seemed he was afraid of being bored, and did not start till six o'clock. Brady says he was always like that, even in college; that when they were invited anywhere, Flint would always put off the start, and would say, ”Your coming away depends on your hostess; but your going depends upon yourself.”
”If it had been _my_ house,” said I, ”his _staying_ away would have depended on his hostess. I have no patience with a rude man.”
”Flint rude?” said Philip.