The speck was a buzzard.
The young fellow turned from the glimmering water and looked diffidently at the girl. She bent her grey eyes upon the stream.
“Would you mind telling me whether there are trout in this river?” he asked, moving a step toward her.
She raised her head instantly, smiling.
“Gay Brook was a famous trout stream — once,” she answered.
“Then I suppose there are a few still left in it,” he asked, also smiling.
“But,” continued the girl, “that was very, very long ago.” She was looking again at the water, pensively.
“How long ago?” he persisted, drawing a little nearer.
“About seventy-five years ago,” she replied without raising her head; “Buck Gordon says so. Do you know Buck Gordon? His boys are the telegraph agents at the station above. I don’t know the Gordon boys; I have spoken twice with old man Gordon. I do not suppose,” she continued reflectively, “that there has been a trout in Gay Brook for fifty years. Do you know why?”
“No,” he said, “but I should be glad to know.”
He had drawn a little nearer and now leaned on the wooden railing of the bridge, his back to the water, his hands in his pockets. A leather rod-case was slung over one shoulder. The southern sun crisped the edges of his short hair and shorter moustache.
“The reason,” said the girl, gazing dreamily into the stream again,—” the reason is because they cut off so much timber in the mountain notch yonder that now the freshets come every spring, and for weeks the water is nothing but yellow mud. Trout can’t live in mud, — can they?”
After a silence he said: “And so there are no more trout.” She shook her head. The sun burnished her dark hair and tinged the delicate contour of cheek and throat with a warmer flush. Her white cambric sunbonnet swung from her waist by both strings. Presently she put it on and turned toward him, holding the tips of the strings between the forefinger and thumb of her left hand. Her right hand lay indolently along the grey railing of the bridge. It was dimpled and tanned to a creamy tint.
“I have seen you three times here at the bridge,” she observed.
“And I have seen you,” he said; “I wish I had spoken before.”
She tore a tiny splinter from the sun-bleached railing and dropped it into the water. It danced away through the trembling sunbeams.
“I wondered why you came to fish in Gay Brook,” she went on; “I might have told you that there are nothing but minnows here; — I nearly did tell you—”
“I wish I had asked the first time we — I saw you,” he said; “it would have saved me no end of disappointment. Why did you not tell me?”
“Because — you didn’t ask me. I might have told you anyway if I had not seen that you were from the North.”
“You dislike Northern people?”
“I? Oh, no, — I don’t know any.”
“But you say that if—”
“I mean that I do not understand Northern strangers.”
The young fellow looked at her curiously.
“Why, I thought you also were from the North,” he said; “you do not speak with a Southern accent—”
“I am from Maryland, but I have lived here in North Carolina nearly all of my life. The reason that I do not speak with a Southern accent is because my uncle is from the North and I have lived alone with him, — ever since I can remember.”
“Here?”
“Yes. I am very glad you spoke to me. When do you go away to the North again?”
The young fellow touched his short moustache and gave her a sharp glance. His sunburned cheeks were tinged with a faint colour.
“I am very glad too,” he said; “I find it a bit lonely at the hotel.”.
“The hotel,” she repeated; “there are two hundred people there.”
“And I am lonely,” he said again.
“You can’t be, — how can you be?” she persisted, raising her grey eyes to his.
“Because,” he replied; “I haven’t anything in common with any of them, — except Tom O’Hara.”
“I don’t understand,” she insisted. “It seems to me that if I had the happiness of being with a great many people I should have all in the world that I long for. I have nobody, — except my uncle.”
“You have your friends,” he said.
“No, nobody except my uncle. I do not count Zeke, and the boys.”
“Zeke?”
“Zeke Chace.”
“Oh,” he said; “I’ve heard of him. He runs the blockade, doesn’t he?”
“Does he?” she asked demurely.
He laughed and rested his head on his wrist, looking into her face. Her face was half hidden in the shadow of her sunbonnet, so she met his gaze placidly.
“Doesn’t Zeke Chace run the blockade?” he repeated.
“What blockade?” she asked. Her grey eyes were very round and innocent.
“Have you never heard of blockade whisky?” he insisted.
She had to laugh.
“I might have heard something about it,” she admitted.
His pleasant serious face questioned hers and her lips parted in the merriest laugh again.
“How silly!” she cried; “everybody has heard of blockade whisky.”
“Oh,” he said, “I have often asked, but the people around here won’t talk about it!”
“Perhaps they take you for a Revenue Officer,” she ventured gravely.
“Very probably,” he answered.
At this she laughed outright. It occurred to him that she was making fun of him and he glanced at her again sharply.
“How do you know that I am not a Revenue Officer?” he asked.
Her laughing eyes met his.
“Can you tell a coon from a possum?” she asked in return.
“I? Of course.”
“So can I,” she said, trying hard to look serious. After a moment they both laughed outright.
“You have teased me unmercifully,” he said; “don’t you think you ought to tell me where I can catch a trout or two?”
“Then I will,” she answered impulsively, moving a step nearer; “but Zeke won’t like it. There are trout in the Buzzard Run.”
“The Buzzard Run?”
“It’s yonder, behind Mist Mountain. Zeke won’t like it,” she repeated.
“Why? Does Zeke fish too?”
“Zeke? Hm! Not exactly. Never mind, — I shall tell Zeke about you and nobody will bother you. But you must be a little careful; there are snakes on Mist Mountain.”
Not dangerous snakes, — are there?”
“I don’t know what kind you are used to,” she said; “there are rattlers in the rocks on Mist Mountain.”
After a pause he asked her if there were many rattlesnakes there.
“Sometimes one sees two or three, sometimes none at all,” she answered. “They give you warning; they run if you let them. It might be better if you kept to the path. There is a path all the way.”
“Then I’ll stick to it,” he said lightly I suppose it’s too late to go to-day.” He looked at his watch and raised his eyebrows. “Why, it’s twelve o’clock!” he exclaimed.
She refused to believe it and bent her dainty head over his shoulder to see.
“Dear me!” she cried, “uncle will question me!”
They stood looking at each other with new-born awkwardness. She took one short step backward.
“Are you going?” he asked, scarcely conscious of what he said.
“Why, yes, — I must.”
He leaned over the bridge railing and looked at the crinkling ripples. After a while she also bent over, resting her elbows on the railing. A brilliant green beetle ran across the bleached board, halted, spread its burnished wings, and buzzed away across the stream. A small fluffy honey-wasp alighted between her elbows and crept quickly into a hole in the splintering plank.
“Yes,” she repeated, I must go.”
He raised his hea
d and looked her frankly in the eyes:
“I should like to see you again,” he said.
“Really? Oh, I suppose I shall pass the bridge again before you go.”
“How do you know? Suppose I should go tomorrow?”
“You said you were going fishing to-morrow, — didn’t you?”
“Why no, — I didn’t say so,” he said eagerly; “I would rather talk with you.”
“Why don’t you go fishing?”
“I would rather talk to you,” he repeated.
“What shall we talk about — blockade whisky?” They both laughed. He had moved up beside her again.
“I want to see you again,” she said, “I think you can see that I do. I could come to the bridge tomorrow. I would rather the people at the hotel did not know. My uncle has forbidden me to speak to anybody except Zeke and the boys. When I was a child I did not feel very lonely; now I have the greatest longing to know people — girls of my own age. I dare not.”
“Have you no girl friend at all?”
“No. I should like to know older women too. At night in bed I often cry and cry — there! — I should not tell you such things—”
“Tell me,” he said soberly.
But she only smiled and shook her head saying; “It is lonely at Yo Espero.”
He looked into her grey eyes; they troubled him. “I dare not wait any longer,” she said,—” goodbye, — will you come to-morrow?”
“Here? Yes. Shall I come early?”
“Oh, yes.”
“At seven?”
“Yes.”
He offered her his hand but she did not take it.
“Wait,” she said, “I do not know your name, — no, — don’t tell me now, — let me think a little of what I have done. If I come to-morrow — then you may tell me.”
He watched her hurry away up the woodland path that leads to Yo Espero. When she was gone he stood still, idly tearing dried splinters from the bridge railing.
II.
The piazzas of the Diamond Spring Hotel were empty; the guests came trooping through the great square hall and into the big dining-room to be fed.
Young Edgeworth arrived late and silently took his seat, bowing civilly to his neighbours.
There were fifteen people at his table, including the Reverend Dr. Beezeley, who presided, flanked by his wife, his progeny, and a bottle of Diamond Spring water. Near to the Reverend Orlando Beezeley sat another minister, a little pink gentleman with bulging eyes. His name was Meeke and he looked it. But he wasn’t.
Now the Reverend Orlando Beezeley and Dr. Samuel Meeke were both of a stripe, differing on one or two obscure questions. One reverend gentleman was a pillar of the “Pure People’s League;” the other wore the badge of the “Charity Band.” And they squabbled.
For their leagues, their bands, and their squabbles, Edgeworth cared nothing. He believed that all people should be allowed to worship God in their own fashion, — even by squabbling if they chose. He was disposed to be courteous to the two ministers and their wives and young. It was difficult, however, partly because they were inquisitive, partly on account of the Reverend Orlando’s personal habits, which were maddening. He put his fingers into everything, including his mouth; they were always sticky, and this, combined with cuffs that came too far over his knuckles, oppressed Edgeworth. The Reverend Orlando’s fingers were obtrusive. When he walked they spread out, perhaps to stem the downward avalanche of cuff. He also twiddled them when he had no other use for them, and Heaven knows he put them to uses for which they were never intended.
All this interfered with Edgeworth’s appetite and he shunned the Reverend Orlando Beezeley. Once, at the table, the minister asked him why he didn’t go to the Sunday services which he, Dr. Beezeley, held in the hotel parlours, and when Edgeworth said it was because he didn’t want to, the Reverend Orlando sniffed offensively. For a week the atmosphere was surcharged with unpleasantness; but one day Dr. Beezeley asked Edgeworth what he did for a living, and Edgeworth pleasantly told him that it was none of his business. The atmosphere at once cleared up and the Reverend Orlando became irksomely affable. This was because he was afraid of Edgeworth and disliked him.
Therefore, when Edgeworth entered the diningroom and slipped quietly into his chair, Dr. Beezeley said: “Hey! been a-fishin?”
“No,” said Edgeworth.
“Where’ve you been then?” urged Mrs. Beezeley, devoured by curiosity. She had contracted this disease in the little Boston suburb where she lived, and she had infected her whole family.
“I have been out,” said Edgeworth pleasantly.
Dr. Samuel Meeke, who had pricked up his ears, relapsed into a dull contemplation of Mrs. Dill again.
But Mrs. Beezeley was not defeated. She turned to the pallid lady beside her, Mrs. Dill, and said in a thin high voice: “Pass the trout to Mr. Edgeworth; he can’t seem to catch any — even off the old foot-bridge.”
Edgeworth was intensely annoyed, for it was plain that some of the Beezeley brood had been spying. He looked at Master Ballington Beezeley who grinned at him impertinently.
His father was busy feeding himself with mashed potato, but he observed his heir’s impudence and was not displeased.
“I seen you,” cried the youthful Beezeley, writhing with the pressure of untold secrets,—” you was mashin’ a country-girl, Mister Edgeworth, — I seen you!”
“Te-he!” tittered Mrs. Dill.
“‘I saw you,’ would perhaps be more correct,” said Edgeworth; “unless perhaps your parents have instructed you to the contrary—”
“Ballington!” cried Mrs. Beezeley, turning red, “how dare yo “use such grammar?”
Edgeworth surveyed the defeat of the Beezeleys without any particular emotion.
Mrs. Dill attempted to save the day but choked on an olive and was assisted from the room by Dr. Samuel Meeke. Then the Beezeleys made Mrs. Meeke wretched with significant looks and smiles and half-suppressed coughs, until she rose to find out why Mrs. Dill and her husband did not return. Poor little woman! her bosom friend, Mrs. Beezeley, had long ago quenched for her what little comfort in life she ever knew.
When the Reverend Orlando Beezeley had fed to repletion, he removed the napkin from his chin, cleared his throat, picked his teeth, and finally took himself off to the piazza.
“I can’t stand this table full much longer,” muttered Edgeworth to himself, and he called to the head waiter, a majestic personage of colour, and also a Baptist deacon.
“Deacon,” said he, “give me a place at another table to-night, can you?”
“Sho’ly, Sho’ly, Mistuh Edgewurf,” said the majestic one; “might you prefer to be seated at Mis’ Weldon’s table, Mistuh Edgewurf?”
Edgeworth looked across at Mrs. Weldon and then at her pretty daughter, Claire.
“Go over and ask Mrs. Weldon whether she objects,” he said.
Mrs. Weldon did not object and neither did Claire, so Edgeworth walked over and said some polite things which he forgot a minute afterward. So did Mrs. Weldon. I am not sure about Claire.
When Edgeworth went out on the veranda to smoke his pipe, a young fellow in tweeds and scarlet golf-jacket, who was sitting astride the railing said: “Hello, Jim, it’s all over the hotel that you’re sweet on some country girl.”
“Tommy,” said Edgeworth, in a low pleasant voice, “go to the devil!”
O’Hara smiled serenely.
“I suppose it’s that Beezeley whelp, eh, Jim?”
“I fancy it is. A fellow can’t brush his hair but it’s reported in Diamond Springs.”
“Oh, there’s truth in it then,” laughed O’Hara. “That,” said Edgeworth, “is none of your confounded business;” and they strolled off together, arm in arm, smoking placidly.
“These Beezeleys,” said O’Hara, “are blights on the landscape. They ought to be exterminated with Paris-green.”
“Or drowned in tubs,” said Edgeworth.
“Like unpleasant kit
tens,” added O’Hara. “Come,” said Jim Edgeworth, “what was that yarn you wanted to spin for me this morning?”
“Yarn. ’Tis no yarn,” said O’Hara; “it’s the truth and it troubles me. Sit down here on the grass till I tell you. Look at the veranda, Jim; it’s like a circus with the band playing.”
“The girls’ frocks are very pretty; I like lots of colour,” said Edgeworth.
“There’s plenty in Claire Weldon’s cheeks,” observed O’Hara, gloomily.
“It’s natural,” said Jim.
“It was before you came. Now she puts more on in your honour; — confound it, man, can’t you see the lass is forever making eyes at you? — and, Jim, it’s death to me!”
Edgeworth stared at him.
“Oh, you’re blinder than the white bat of Drum-gilt!” said O’Hara; “you’ve eyes in your head, but they’re only there for ornament. Didn’t you know I am in love with Claire Weldon now?”
“Why no,” said Edgeworth, “are you really, Tommy?”
“Am I really, Tommy? Faith, I thought even the fish in Gay Brook knew it.”
“Well,” laughed Edgeworth, “go in and win, then!”
“Do you mean it?” said Tommy gravely.
“Mean it? My dear fellow, why shouldn’t I?”
O’Hara beamed upon him and grasped his hand.
“There!” he cried, “I knew it! I’ve told her ye didn’t care tuppence for any lass, and if she didn’t take me she’d be doin’ herself but ill service.”
Edgeworth burst into fits of laughter. “Is that the way you woo a girl, Tom O’Hara?”
“There are ways and ways,” said O’Hara doggedly.
“How about Sir Brian?” asked Jim, checking his mirth.
Sir Brian was Tommy’s father. The several thousand miles that separated father and son did not lessen Tommy’s uneasiness concerning his father’s approval.
“I can’t help it,” said Tom; “if he disowns me I’ll go to work, that I will! and Claire knows it.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 1105