She turned away her head. He could not see under the sunbonnet, and did not know how carefully she was scrutinizing the path in the pasture below, beyond his sight.
“I could get you books to read,” he pursued, “interesting and helpful ones. I could get you a place in Boston — to work — where you’d have some time for study.”
“What sort of a place?” she asked suspiciously.
“With a friend of mine,” he replied; “a good woman, who likes to help girls work their way through school and college.”
“Housework?” she demanded.
“Yes, helping her in her housework. She has nice girls with her — one Radcliffe student.”
“Not any housework in mine!” the girl replied with decision. “No, siree! Shops are hard enough, and mills are harder; but housework I won’t do.”
“Why not? You’d earn more.”
“Oh, yes — I’d earn more money. But I just won’t do it, that’s all.”
“Well, I don’t know that I blame you,” he said thoughtfully, studying the hard, defiant expression already showing around her young mouth. “Call it a place in a store, then, and a good boarding place — you’ve heard about that big home where the girls have rooms to see their friends —— —”
She interrupted him scornfully.
“Courtin’ parlors! No, sir! If I want any courtin’ I don’t propose to be watchin’ the clock — with a waiting list outside!”
He laughed with her.
“I admire your independence, and your originality, Miss Wentworth. I don’t believe you do justice to your own powers — honestly. Don’t you want to have an education — to make a place for yourself — to be able by and by to marry, better than you could expect to from a factory in Millville?”
“I don’t have to work in Millville always,” she answered him. “I may have plans of my own, you see. What makes you so interested, anyhow?”
She glanced up at him, a childish innocence behind the premature worldly wisdom of which she was so proud.
He rose to his full height and looked down at her without speaking. His eyes were earnest and tender, and under their fixed gaze her own dropped again.
“I’d rather tell you that five years from now,” was all he said.
She started to her feet, laughing. “Five years from now, we may all be dead. How about that other basket you were going to bring?”
His eyes followed hers down to the right. “Oh, I don’t know. There’s lots of time,” he answered.
She seemed uneasy. “They’ll all be up here before you know it,” she insisted.
“All right,” he agreed. “Let Dr. B. carry them, or young Battlesmith.”
The girl fidgeted a little, swinging her pail.
“Guess they’ll need you, too — to bring water and things,” she urged.
But he was stubborn, suggesting, “It certainly looks as if you wanted to get rid of me.”
“No need to wait for that,” she tossed at him. “You can stay here till doomsday, for all I care!” And she flashed over the rocks to the westward and was out of sight in an instant.
He did not follow her. His eyes grew cold and his mouth set and hardened as he watched the ascent of a strongly built man in fishing costume, who was climbing up from the eastern valley. He knew him well enough — had known him from boyhood; they had been chums at school, roommates at college, classmates in their medical school, and were friends still, though the years had brought a wider divergence in character than either was aware. He watched him pressing lightly up the steep hillside, the broad shoulders looming large as he looked down at them.
Years of old association held them together, yet today, as Newcome stood gazing at that sturdy ascending figure, there was no warmth in his heart toward Dick Armstrong.
The latter stopped and looked toward the ridge, with a lilting whistle, but caught sight of Newcome’s tall figure standing motionless there and seemed half minded not to come up. He hesitated a moment, half turned about, then shrugged his broad shoulders and came on apace.
Reaching the top, he saw the cloth and basket and stood still.
“Are those confounded old hens coming up here to gabble and gobble?” he asked sharply.
“Looks like it,” said Newcome, “and I’m a packhorse, sent in advance.”
Dr. Armstrong strolled about in evident discontentment, casually observing the surrounding country.
Dr. Newcome reseated himself in comfort, casually observing the stroller.
Armstrong viewed the basket with extreme disfavor.
“Why in thunder do they want to have a picnic on this ridge pole?” he demanded, snappishly.
“That is what Miss Wentworth said,” observed Newcome, placidly. “At least, that was her state of mind. She did not express it in exactly those words.”
The other stood still, regarding his friend from under lowering brows.
“She’s been here, has she?” he remarked, resuming his dissatisfied walk.
“Yes, she was here a few moments ago, and seemed as displeased at the idea of a picnic on this particular spot, at this particular time, as you are. It’s quite a coincidence.”
Armstrong stopped short, with a gruff, “What are you driving at, Newcome?”
“At something that is only too obvious, I am afraid. I wish it wasn’t.”
He did not look at his friend, but punched careful holes in the moss with a dry stick.
“Look here, Newcome,” said the other, after a few moments’ silence, “I can stand a good deal from an old friend, but what are you butting into this for? I’ve never interfered with any of your little games.”
Newcome said nothing for a little. There were several easy things to say; that he had never played that kind of a game, and never would; that this was too serious a matter to be so lightly described, and similar dispute-provoking suggestions; but he was too much in earnest to waste words, and merely answered:
“No, nor I in yours — before.”
“Well, quit it,” said Armstrong, and swung around, grinding his heel into the soft moss. He seemed uncertain whether to go or stay, glanced viciously at the basket and walked about again, kicking at small stones with apparent relish.
Newcome said nothing, but his silence seemed only to irritate his friend, who came back presently and stood angrily looking down at him, remarking: “You’re no Galahad, that I know of.”
Newcome rose quietly to his feet and met the other’s eyes steadily. “Did I ever claim to be?” he asked.
“Well, let me alone, then! What business of yours is it anyhow?”
“Oh, come, Armstrong, you know you’re a little ashamed of yourself. This isn’t an even game. The girl’s a mere child, ignorant and helpless, and you’re a fetching devil. Let up on her, can’t you, for once?”
The words were light enough, but the tone was earnest, as was the look.
Armstrong had more respect for his friend’s opinion than he would have admitted. Possibly, too, he was in this particular instance a little ashamed of himself. But he squared his heavy shoulders and set his heavy jaw obstinately. Earlier in the summer he might have considered the matter, but not now.
“I believe that you’re in love with her yourself,” was his countercharge.
Newcome met it imperturbably. “If you believe that, you’ll believe anything. This is cradle-snatching, Armstrong, and you know it. It’s unworthy of you.... Of course” — there was a slight stiffening in his manner— “if you mean to marry her, just say so, and I’ll apologize at once.”
Armstrong laughed, shortly. “You need not apologize on that score,” he said. “I’m not in that deep. But I’m in, all right.”
Newcome looked at him narrowly. He would have given a good deal to know how deep, but could not ask.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” pursued the other, “I’m off tomorrow. Then I’ll be out of it.” After a little, he added, “And I’ll tell you another thing, if it will do you any good. I’m glad enough to get out
of it. It’s time.”
Newcome seemed to find singularly little consolation in these concessions, but presently replied, “Thanks, I shall miss you — but I’m glad you’re going.”
“Well, then, can’t you get this confounded picnic to go somewhere else?” queried Armstrong, laying violent hands on the basket.
“No use, old man. The ladies are starting this minute, you can see ‘em; and they’ve set their hearts on this particular spot. I tell you what, you sit in — they’re confidently expecting you, and they’ll be off the minute the sun sets, if not sooner. The Mrs. Reverend cannot outgrow her early fears as to ‘night air.’”
“I’ll be hanged if I will,” said Armstrong morosely.
“Might as well,” pursued Dr. Newcome. “Nothing doing in the way of supper at the house, you see, and no one but the excellent Miss Bingham for company. Miss Wentworth,” his back was turned to his friend at this moment, as he assiduously straightened the tablecloth, and began unpacking wooden plates and paper napkins, “is, I believe, hovering in the circumambient air. She’ll appear when she gets ready. If you want to be useful, or at least to look as if you wanted to, you might start a fire by the rocks.”
Dr. Armstrong surveyed the ascending party, cast rather a hopeless glance at the wild country about him, and began to build the fire.
2. A Man and Two Women
The speed of an army is that of the slowest man in it, or used to be when armies walked; and the speed of the little procession, winding upwards through the steep berry-patched pastures, was that of Mrs. Leicester-Briggs. Her husband, the Reverend Edward Briggs, or Leicester-Briggs, as she insisted on writing it, could not be called a brisk person, but the movements of his wife were so heavily influenced by dignity that she sometimes seemed scarce to move at all.
“Now, Edward,” she announced at starting, “I will set the pace, else you will all go streaming up the hill, and I shall be left alone.” So she placed her broad, well-gowned back at the head of the party and proceeded upward.
Mary Yale, her friend from childhood days in high-minded Boston kindergartens, a woman of spare and agile construction, refused to accept this order of exercises. “Not for me, Laura!” she stoutly proclaimed. “There is plenty of room in this pasture, and I should get the spring-halt if I followed you. I’ll wait for you at decent intervals.” So Miss Yale coursed ahead at a brisk gait, and then put in her time by gathering balsam fir till they caught up.
Daisy Briggs, vibrating between respect for her mother’s wishes and a natural desire for freedom, divided her steps among them, now loitering by her parent’s side, and again flitting up the path to rejoin Miss Yale.
“I should think you had balsam fir enough to stuff a mattress, Aunt Mary. What do you do with it all?”
“Make cushions, of course, child, and give them away. People like mine, because they are carefully prepared.” She carried a denim bag, of large extent and careful construction. It hung around her neck by a broad strap, and when in use its mouth stood open, by a simple arrangement of stiff wire. Then, with both hands free and a pair of strong scissors, she snipped off the soft, green tips, twig by twig, leaving a little blue balsam tree to look, for some five feet from the ground, as if it had been attacked by a species of caterpillar of limited ambitions. “My pillows have no sticks in them, you see, Daisy. Also it is less work. I do not have to wait for the stuff to dry and then go all over it again, breaking it up.”
“You are the most awe-inspiring person, Aunt Mary! I never saw anyone like you. Here they come. Oh, Papa, do let me carry some of those things!”
She tried to relieve him of a basket, but was prevented by the assiduous Mr. Battlesmith, who brought up in the rear, his rate of progress being limited, not by natural incapacity, but by the weight of his burdens.
“No, indeed, Miss Briggs,” he protested, “not for a moment. Allow me, Mr. Briggs,” and he hooked a finger around the added handle.
Mr. Battlesmith was a cousin of Mrs. Briggs, the kind of cousin that looks like a nephew, and was being “put through college” by her efforts, and those of other relatives. In summer he maintained himself by various gentlemanly occupations, this year acting as secretary to Mr. Briggs, while he labored on his book. This work, being of a strictly theological character, commanded no present interest from the other members of the family, and it is to be feared no future market; but Mr. Briggs seemed to enjoy writing it, and Mrs. Briggs spoke to her daughter of “your father’s book” as if it was an indispensable concomitant of dignified paternity.
“It is a pity Dr. Armstrong has not returned, Mary,” she said. “Do you know where he went, Gerald?”
Mr. Battlesmith replied that he did not, but that Miss Bingham had agreed to send him after them when he returned. He, himself, seemed little interested in that return, even if he did have to carry two men’s baskets. When they finally reached the top, the missing one was discovered, lounging discontentedly, while Dr. Newcome tended the smoky little fire and added finishing touches to the table decorations, or rather the tablecloth decorations.
Mr. Briggs set down his load with a sigh of relief, as did Mr. Battlesmith, though less audibly. Daisy knelt by the baskets, laying out that superfluity of discordant food common to picnics, while Mrs. Briggs determined in her mind where everyone should sit, and used her best powers to compel them to sit there.
The arrangement, as consummated, involved a mossy seat with a boulder behind it for Mrs. Briggs, Daisy beside her on the left, and Dr. Armstrong beside Daisy. On the right Mr. Battlesmith, Miss Yale and Mr. Briggs. Dr. Newcome seemed a sort of fifth wheel, but was generally useful between the fire and the feast, and finally distinguished himself by producing a tin box of marshmallows, which he toasted to admiration.
“It was lovely of you to bring marshmallows!” cried Daisy, with enthusiasm. “How do you always hit on the right thing?” Miss Yale inquired, and Mr. Briggs, still munching serenely, found voice to answer, “It is his heart, dear lady. He has a good heart. A great gift.”
Armstrong smiled rather maliciously. “He doesn’t always hit it. For instance, when he brought Jane Isabel to Mrs. Briggs.”
Mrs. Briggs at this moment scrambled, no, loomed, to her feet. “It is astonishing how hard a rock back becomes,” she said. “I must really stand a while.” She moved about for a little and reseated herself with dignity. “What have you got in the bag, Mary Yale, not more food, I hope?”
“Balsam fir, as you perfectly well know,” her friend replied.
Dr. Armstrong smiled again. If he must endure this picnic, he would get some amusement out of it. “I believe you accumulate fir cushions in summer to save buying Christmas presents,” he said.
Daisy joined in mischievously. “Yes, Aunt Mary always was penurious.”
Miss Yale looked from one to the other. “Say much more, and I’ll send you all one — and nothing else!”
Daisy forthwith capitulated. “Oh, Aunt Mary! I apologize! On my knees! Do forgive me! And please in the meantime lend me one of your forty-’leven handkerchiefs to cry in.”
Among the useful peculiarities of Miss Mary Yale was the wearing of a costume of businesslike simplicity and possessing many pockets. Her coat had pockets above and below, without and within; her skirt had pockets, visible and inferred; her neat blouse had a pocket, and it was rumored among friends that she had pockets in her petticoat. In the list of contents, handkerchiefs bulked large. “The stupidity of women in the matter of handkerchiefs is inexplicable to me,” she would protest. “They buy good-for-nothing scraps of diaphanous material with decorations that are worse than useless, and then lose them every few minutes, as if life were an everlasting game of ‘drop the handkerchief.’ I believe they only drop them to be picked up by men — like a spoiled baby with a rattle! I carry handkerchiefs enough for myself and other people too!”
It always pleased her to be asked for one, as Miss Daisy well knew. “Speaking of handkerchiefs,” said Dr. Armstrong, turning politely
to Mrs. Briggs, “what was your objection to Jane Isabel?”
Mrs. Briggs cast a reproachful glance at him.
“One can’t like every book, even if they are given one by kind friends.” She smiled benignly at Dr. Newcome, continuing, “But where is that sunset you dragged me up this mountain to see, Mary Yale?” Miss Yale sniffed. “If you call this little ridge a mountain you’d better live in Holland, Laura! I don’t own the sunset!”
Mr. Briggs, still toying with small cakes, here took up his favorite role of peacemaker, with his usual overestimate of the necessity.
“We must not ask too much, my dear,” he said to his wife. “I am told the sunset is usually very fine from this eminence. We cannot expect to control the weather, can we, Armstrong?”
Armstrong smiled amicably back at him, and turned to the head of the tablecloth.
“Speaking of sunsets, did you object to Jane Isabel’s character, or conduct, Mrs. Briggs?”
“What a tease you are, Dr. Armstrong,” said that lady. “To both, of course.” Again she rose to her feet and stood, looking about through her lorgnette, remarking, “I think the sun will come out later, after all.”
“But why?” pursued her tormentor. “Don’t you think she was more sinned against than sinning?”
This time she quite ignored his question for the moment and spoke to her daughter.
“Daisy, dear, I think there are some fine blueberries over by that rock yonder. I wish you’d get me some.”
“All right, Mama!” the girl agreed, glad of an excuse to get up, and taking the small pail Dr. Newcome offered her, she skipped off cheerfully.
Then Mrs. Briggs turned to reply.
“Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, but I dislike to discuss a book of that sort before my daughter. She is only eighteen, you know, and quite a child yet.”
“She’ll never be anything else, Laura, if you keep her from knowing anything,” Miss Yale remarked, but the Reverend Edward remonstrated, “O, my dear Miss Yale! Our Daisy is by no means ignorant! We do not wish her to know any evil, that is all!”
Dr. Newcome, who had begun to busy himself with collecting wooden plates and paper napkins, and the baskets full of fragments, which make every picnic a miracle, now spoke with cheerful apology.
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 52