“Fanny!” she cried reprovingly. “How rude you are! I’m sure I wasn’t saying anything at all flattering.”
“I only wish people would say such things to me, then,” retorted the young girl.
“We’re all quite ready to, I’m sure, Miss Trehearne,” said Brinsley, smiling in a way that seemed to make his heavy dark mustache retreat outward, up his cheeks, like the whiskers of a cat when it grins.
Fanny looked round and met Lawrence’s eyes.
“You seem to be the only one who is ready,” she said, laughing again. “One isn’t a crowd, as the little boys say.”
“Where do you get such expressions, my dear child? “ asked Cordelia. “I really think you’ve learned more slang since you’ve been here this summer, though I shouldn’t have believed it possible!”
“There!” exclaimed Fanny, turning to Mr. Brinsley again. “That’s the kind of flattery my relatives lavish on me from morning till night! As if you didn’t all talk slang, the whole time!”
“Fanny!” protested Augusta, whose accomplishments made her sensitive and conscious. “How can you say so?”
“Well — dialect, if you like the word better. I’ll prove it you. You all say ‘won’t’ and ‘shan’t’ — and most of you say ‘I’d like’ — for instance — and Mr. Brinsley says ‘ain’t,’ because he’s English—”
“Well — what ought we to say?” asked Augusta. “Nobody says ‘I will not,’ and all that.”
“You ought to. It’s dialect not to — and the absurd thing is that people who go in for writing books generally write out all the things you don’t say, and write them in the wrong order. We say ‘wouldn’t you’ — don’t we? Well, doesn’t that stand for ‘would not you’? And yet they print ‘would you not’ — always. It’s ridiculous. I read a criticism the other day on a man who had written a book and who wrote ‘will not you’ for ‘won’t you’ and ‘would not you’ for ‘wouldn’t you’ because he wanted to be accurate. You’ve no idea what horrid things the critic said of him — he simply stood on his hind legs and pawed the air! It’s so silly! Either we should speak as we write, or write as we speak. I don’t mean in philosophy — and things — the steam-engine and the descent of man, and all that — but in writing out conversations. But then, of course, nobody will agree with me — so I talk as I please.”
“There’s a great deal of truth in what you say, Miss Trehearne,” observed Brinsley, assuming a wise air. “Besides, I beg to differ from Miss Miner, on one point — I venture to say that I don’t dislike your slang, if it’s slang at all. It’s expressive, of its kind.”
“At last!” cried Fanny, with a laugh. “I get some praise — faint, but perceptible.”
“Faint praise isn’t supposed to be complimentary,” observed Lawrence, laughing too.
“That’s true,” answered Fanny. “It’s just the opposite — the thing with a d — . I won’t say it on account of Cordelia. She’d all frizzle up with horror if I said it — wouldn’t you, dear? There’d positively be nothing left of you — nothing but a dear little withered rose-leaf with a dewdrop in the middle, representing your tears for my sins!”
“I’m afraid so,” answered Cordelia, with a little accentuation of her tired smile.
It was not a disagreeable smile in itself, except that it was perpetual and was the expression of patiently and cheerfully borne adversity, rather than of any satisfaction with things in general. For the lives of the three Miss Miners had not been happy. Sometimes Fanny felt a sincere and loving pity for the three, and especially for the eldest. But there were also times when Cordelia’s smile exasperated her beyond endurance.
Mr. Brinsley rose to go, rather suddenly, after checking a movement of his hand in the direction of his watch.
“You’re not going, surely!” cried one or two of the Miss Miners. “You’re coming to dinner.”
“Stay as you are,” suggested Fanny, greatly to Lawrence’s annoyance.
“You’re awfully kind,” answered the Canadian. “But I can’t, to-night. I wish I could. I’ve asked several people to dine with me at the Kebo Valley Club. I’d cut any other engagement, to dine with you — indeed I would. I’m awfully sorry.”
Many regrets were expressed that he could not stay, and the leave-taking seemed sudden to Lawrence, who stood looking on, still wondering why he disliked the man so much. At last he heard the front door closed behind him.
“Who is Mr. Brinsley?” he asked of Fanny Trehearne, while the three Miss Miners were settling themselves again.
“Oh — I don’t know. I believe he’s a Canadian Englishman. He’s very agreeable — don’t you think so?”
“He’s the most delightful man I ever met!” sighed Augusta Miner, before Lawrence had time to say anything.
“Did you notice his eyes, Mr. Lawrence?” asked Miss Elizabeth. “Don’t you think they’re beautiful?”
“Beautiful? Well — it depends,” Lawrence answered with considerable hesitation, for he did not in the least know what to say.
“Oh, but it isn’t his eyes, nor his conversation!” put in Cordelia, emphatically. “It is that he’s such a perfect gentleman! You feel that he wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t quite — quite — don’t you know?”
“I’m not sure that I do,” replied Lawrence, in some bewilderment. “But I understand what you mean,” he added confidently.
“My dear,” said Augusta to her eldest sister, “all that is perfectly true, as I always say. But those are not the things that make him the most charming man I ever met. Oh dear, no! Ever so many men one knows have good eyes, and talk well, and are gentlemen in every way. I’m sure you wouldn’t have a man about if he wasn’t a gentleman. Would you?”
“Oh no — in a wider sense — all the men we have to do with are, of course—”
“Well,” argued Augusta, “that’s just what I’m telling you, my dear. It isn’t those things. It lies much deeper. It’s a sort of refined appreciation — an appreciative refinement — both, you know. Now, the other day, do you remember? — when I was playing that Mazurka of Chopin — did you notice his expression?”
“But he always has that expression when anything pleases him very much,” said Miss Elizabeth.
“Yes, I know. But just then, it was quite extraordinary — there’s something almost child like—”
“If you go on about Mr. Brinsley in this way much longer, you’ll all have a fit,” observed Fanny Trehearne.
“My dear,” answered Cordelia, gravely, “do you know what a ‘fit’ means? Really, sometimes, you do exaggerate—”
“A fit means convulsions — what babies have, you know. They used to say it was brought on by looking at the moon.”
Lawrence felt a strong inclination to laugh at this moment, but he controlled it, and only smiled. Then, to his considerable embarrassment, they all appealed to him, probably in the hope of more praise for Brinsley.
“Do tell us how he strikes you, Mr. Lawrence,” said Cordelia.
“Yes, do!” echoed Elizabeth.
“Oh, please do!” cried Augusta, at the same moment.
“I should be curious to know what you think of him,” said Fanny Trehearne.
“Well, really,” stammered the unfortunate young man, “I’ve hardly seen him — I’ve not had time to form an opinion — you must know him, and you all like him, and — it seems to me — that settles it. Doesn’t it?”
While Lawrence was speaking, Miss Cordelia stooped and picked something up from the floor. He noticed that it was the leafless stem of the flower which Brinsley had been twisting m his fingers. She did not throw it away, but her hand closed over it, and Lawrence did not see it again.
CHAPTER V.
LOUIS LAWRENCE HAD not been at Bar Harbour a week before he became fully aware — if indeed there had previously been any doubt on the subject in his mind — that he was very much in love with Fanny Trehearne. It became clear to him that, although he had believed himself to be in love once or
twice before then, he had been mistaken, and that he had never known until the present time exactly what love meant. He was not even sure that he was pleased with the passion, or, at least, with the form in which it attacked him. Sensitive as he was, it took him hard, as the saying is, and he felt that it had the better of him at every turn, and disposed of him in spite of himself at every hour of the day. When he was alone he wondered why he had been asked to the house, and whether Mr. and Mrs. Trehearne, who were abroad, knew anything about it. He was a modest man, and was inclined to underestimate himself, so that it could never have occurred to him that Fanny Trehearne might have been strongly attracted by him during their acquaintance in town, and might have insisted that he should be asked to come and pass a fortnight. Moreover, Fanny lost no opportunity of impressing upon him that he was a great favourite with the three Miss Miners, and she managed to convey the impression that he had been asked chiefly to please them, though she never said so.
Meanwhile, however, it was evident that the three sisters were absorbed in Mr. Brinsley, and that when the latter was present they took very little notice of Lawrence. He laughed at the thought that the three old maids should all be equally in love with the showy Canadian, and he told himself that the thing was ridiculous; that they were merely enthusiastic women, — gushing women, he called them in his thoughts, — who were flattered by the diplomatic and unfailing civilities of a man who was evidently in pursuit of Fanny Trehearne.
For by this time he was convinced that Brinsley had made up his mind to marry Fanny if he could; and he hated him all the more for it, even to formulating wicked prayers for the suitor’s immediate destruction. The worst of it was, that the man might possibly succeed. A girl who will and can ride anything, who beats everybody at tennis, and who is as good as most men in a sail-boat, may naturally be supposed to admire a man who does those things, and many others, in a style bordering upon perfection. This same man, too, though not exactly clever in an intellectual way, possessed at least the gifts of fluency and tact, combined with great coolness under all circumstances, so far as Lawrence had observed him. It was hardly fair to assert that he was dishonest because he flattered the three Miss Miners, and occupied himself largely in trying to anticipate their smallest wishes. He did it so well as to make even Fanny Trehearne believe that he liked them for their own sakes, and that his intentions were disinterested and not directed wholly to herself. Of course she knew that he wished to marry her; but she was used to that. Two, at least, of several men who had already informed her that their happiness depended upon winning her, were even now in Bar Harbour, — presumably repeating that or a similar statement to more or less willing ears. As for Lawrence, he could not fairly blame Brinsley for his behaviour — he confessed in secret that he flattered the three Miss Miners himself, with small regard for unprejudiced truth. Besides, they were very kind to him. But he found it hard to speak fairly of Brinsley when alone with Fanny Trehearne.
“I don’t like the man,” he said, on inadequate provocation, for the twentieth time.
“I know you don’t,” answered Fanny, calmly, “but that’s no reason for letting go of the tiller. Mind the boom! she’s going about — no — it’s of no use to put the helm up now. We’ve no way on — let her go! No — I don’t mean that — oh, do give it to me!”
And thereupon Fanny, who was sitting forward of him on the weather side, stretched her long arm across him, pushing him back into his corner, and put the helm hard down with her left hand, while she hauled in the sheet as much as she could with her right, bending her head low to avoid the boom as it came swinging over.
Lawrence could not help looking down at her, and he forgot all about the boom, being far too little familiar with boating to avoid it instinctively, when he felt the boat going about. It came slowly, for there was little wind; and the catboat, having no way on to speak of, was in no hurry to right herself and go over on the other tack, — but just as the shadow of the sail warned him that something was coming, he looked up, and at the same instant received the blow full on his forehead, just above his eyes. He wore a soft, knitted woollen cap, which did not even afford the protection of a visor.
Fanny turned her head at once, for the blow had been audible, and she saw what had happened. Lawrence had raised his hand to his forehead instinctively.
“Are you hurt?” asked Fanny, quickly,
Boat Wharves.
keeping her eyes upon him, and still holding the helm hard over so as to give the boat way.
Lawrence did not answer at once. He was half stunned, and still covered his forehead with his hand. The young girl looked at him intently, and there was an expression in her eyes which he, at least, had never seen there — a sudden, scared light which had nothing to do with fear.
“Are you hurt?” she asked again, gently.
His delicate face grew suddenly pale, as the blood, which had rushed up at first under the shock of the blow, subsided as suddenly. Fanny turned her eyes from him and looked ahead and under the sail to leeward. She let out a little more sheet, so that the boat could run very free; for the craft, like most catboats, had a weather helm when the sheet was well aft, and Fanny wanted her hands. Moreover, Lawrence was now on the lee side with her, and the boat would have heeled too far over with the wind abeam. As soon as the sail drew properly, Fanny sat up beside Lawrence, steering across him with her left hand. With her right she could reach the water, and she scooped up what she could in her hollow palm, wetting her sleeve to the shoulder as she did so, for the boat was gaining speed. She dashed the drops in his face.
“Are you hurt?” she asked a third time, drawing away his hand and laying her own wet one upon his forehead.
“Oh no,” he answered faintly. “I’m not hurt at all.”
She could tell by his voice that he was not speaking the truth, and a moment later, as he leaned against the side of the boat, his head fell back, and his lips parted in a dead faint.
There was no scorn in the young girl’s face for a man who could faint so easily, as it seemed; but the scared look came into her eyes again, and without hesitation, still steering with her left hand, she passed her right arm round his neck and supported him. The breeze was almost in her face now, for she was looking astern, and she knew by the way it fanned her whether she was keeping the boat fairly before it.
Lawrence did not revive immediately, and it was fortunate that there was so little wind, or Fanny might have got into trouble. She looked at him a moment longer and hesitated, for the position was a difficult one, as will be admitted. But she was equal to it and knew what to do. Letting his head fall back as it would, she withdrew her arm, let go the helm, and hauled in the sheet as the boat’s head came up. As the boom came over toward Lawrence’s head, she caught it and lifted it over him, hauled in the slack and made the sheet fast, springing forward instantly to let go the halliards. The gaff came rattling down, and she gathered in the bellying sail hastily and took a turn round everything with the end of the throat halliard, which chanced to be long enough — the gaskets were out of her reach, in the bottom of the boat.
There was little or no sea on, as the tide was near the turning, and the catboat was rocking softly to the little waves when Fanny came aft again. Lawrence’s head was still hanging back, his lips were parted, and his eyes were half open, showing the whites in a rather ghastly way. With strong arms the young girl half lifted him, and let him gently down upon the cushions in the stern-sheets. Then she leaned over the side and wetted her handkerchief and laid it upon his bruised forehead. The cold water and the change of position brought him to himself.
He opened his eyes and looked up into her face as she bent over him. Then, all at once, he seemed to realize what had happened, and with an exclamation he tried to sit up. But she would not let him.
“Lie still a minute longer!” she said authoritatively. “You’ll be all right in a little while.”
“But it isn’t anything, I assure you,” he protested, looking abo
ut him in a dazed way. “Please let me sit up! I won’t make a fool of myself again — it’s only my heart, you know. It stops sometimes — it wasn’t the knock.”
“Your heart?” repeated Fanny, with greater anxiety than Lawrence might have expected. “You haven’t got heart disease, have you?”
“Oh no — not so bad as that. It’s all right now. It will begin to beat very hard presently — there — I can feel it — and then it will go on regularly again. It isn’t anything. I fancy I smoke too much — or it’s coffee — or something. Please don’t look as though you thought it were anything serious, Miss Trehearne. I assure you, it’s nothing. Lots of people have it.”
“It is serious. Anything that has to do with the heart is serious.”
Lawrence smiled faintly.
“Is that a joke?” he asked. “If it is, please let me sit up.”
“No — that isn’t a reason,” answered Fanny, laughing a little, though her eyes were still grave. “You must lie still a little longer. You might faint again, you know. It must be dangerous to have one’s heart behaving so strangely.”
“Oh — I don’t believe so.”
“You don’t believe so? You mean that it’s possible, but that you hope it won’t stop? Is that it?”
“Oh — well — perhaps. But I don’t think there’s any real danger. Besides — if it did, it’s easy, you know.”
“What’s easy?”
“It’s an easy death — over at once, in a flash. No lingering and last words and all that.” He laughed.
Fanny Trehearne’s sunburned cheeks grew pale under their tan, and her cool grey eyes turned slowly away from his face, and rested on the blue water.
“Please don’t talk about such things!” she said in a tone that seemed hard to Lawrence.
“Are you afraid of death?” he asked, still smiling.
“I?” She turned upon him indignantly. “No — I don’t believe that I’m much afraid of anything — for myself.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 704