XL.
One morning Westover got leave from Mrs. Durgin to help Cynthia open the dim rooms and cold corridors at the hotel to the sun and air. She promised him he should take his death, but he said he would wrap up warm, and when he came to join the girl in his overcoat and fur cap, he found Cynthia equipped with a woollen cloud tied around her head, and a little shawl pinned across her breast.
“Is that all?” he reproached her. “I ought to have put on a single wreath of artificial flowers and some sort of a blazer for this expedition. Don't you think so, Mrs. Durgin?”
“I believe women can stand about twice as much cold as you can, the best of you,” she answered, grimly.
“Then I must try to keep myself as warm as I can with work,” he said. “You must let me do all the rough work of airing out, won't you, Cynthia?”
“There isn't any rough work about it,” she answered, in a sort of motherly toleration of his mood, without losing anything of her filial reverence.
She took care of him, he perceived, as she took care of her brother and her father, but with a delicate respect for his superiority, which was no longer shyness.
They began with the office and the parlor, where they flung up the windows, and opened the doors, and then they opened the dining-room, where the tables stood in long rows, with the chairs piled on them legs upward. Cynthia went about with many sighs for the dust on everything, though to Westover's eyes it all seemed frigidly clean. “If it goes on as it has for the past two years,” she said, “we shall have to add on a new dining-room. I don't know as I like to have it get so large!”
“I never wanted it to go beyond the original farmhouse,” said Westover. “I've been jealous of every boarder but the first. I should have liked to keep it for myself, and let the world know Lion's Head from my pictures.”
“I guess Mrs. Durgin thinks it was your picture that began to send people here.”
“And do you blame me, too? What if the thing I'm doing now should make it a winter resort? Nothing could save you, then, but a fire. I believe that's Jeff's ambition. Only he would want to put another hotel in place of this; something that would be more popular. Then the ruin I began would be complete, and I shouldn't come any more; I couldn't bear the sight.”
“I guess Mrs. Durgin wouldn't think it was lion's Head if you stopped coming,” said Cynthia.
“But you would know better than that,” said Westover; and then he was sorry he had said it, for it seemed to ask something of different quality from her honest wish to make him know their regard for him.
She did not answer, but went down a long corridor to which they had mounted, to raise the window at the end, while he raised another at the opposite extremity. When they met at the stairway again to climb to the story above, he said: “I am always ashamed when I try to make a person of sense say anything silly,” and she flushed, still without answering, as if she understood him, and his meaning pleased her. “But fortunately a person of sense is usually equal to the temptation. One ought to be serious when he tries it with a person of the other sort; but I don't know that one is!”
“Do you feel any draught between these windows?” asked Cynthia, abruptly. “I don't want you should take cold.”
“Oh, I'm all right,” said Westover.
She went into the rooms on one side of the corridor, and put up their windows, and flung the blinds back. He did the same on the other side. He got a peculiar effect of desolation from the mattresses pulled down over the foot of the bedsteads, and the dismantled interiors reflected in the mirrors of the dressing-cases; and he was going to speak of it when he rejoined Cynthia at the stairway leading to the third story, when she said, “Those were Mrs. Vostrand's rooms I came out of the last.” She nodded her head over her shoulder toward the floor they were leaving.
“Were they indeed! And do you remember people's rooms so long?”
“Yes; I always think of rooms by the name of people that have them, if they're any way peculiar.”
He thought this bit of uncandor charming, and accepted it as if it were the whole truth. “And Mrs. Vostrand was certainly peculiar. Tell me, Cynthia, what did you think of her?”
“She was only here a little while.”
“But you wouldn't have come to think of her rooms by her name if she hadn't made a strong impression on you!” She did not answer, and he said, “I see you didn't like her!”
The girl would not speak, and Mr. Westover went on: “She used to be very good to me, and I think she used to be better to herself than she is now.” He knew that Jeff must have told Cynthia of his affair with Genevieve Vostrand, and he kept himself from speaking of her by a resolution he thought creditable, as he mounted the stairs to the upper story in the silence to which Cynthia left his last remark. At the top she made a little pause in the obscurer light of the close-shuttered corridor, while she said: “I liked her daughter the best.”
“Yes?” he returned. “I—never felt very well acquainted with her, I believe. One couldn't get far with her. Though, for the matter of that, one didn't get far with Mrs. Vostrand herself. Did you think Genevieve was much influenced by her mother?”
“She didn't seem a strong character.”
“No, that was it. She was what her mother wished her to be. I've often wondered how much she was interested in the marriage she made.”
Cynthia let a rustic silence ensue, and Westover shrank again from the inquisition he longed to make.
It was not Genevieve Vostrand's marriage which really concerned him, but Cynthia's engagement, and it was her mind that he would have liked to look into. It might well be supposed that she regarded it in a perfect matter-of-fact way, and with no ambition beyond it. She was a country girl, acquainted from childhood with facts of life which town-bred girls would not have known without a blunting of the sensibilities, and why should she be different from other country girls? She might be as good and as fine as he saw her, and yet be insensible to the spiritual toughness of Jeff, because of her love for him. Her very goodness might make his badness unimaginable to her, and if her refinement were from the conscience merely, and not from the tastes and experiences, too, there was not so much to dread for her in her marriage with such a man. Still, he would have liked, if he could, to tell her what he had told her father of Durgin's behavior with Lynde, and let her bring the test of her self-devotion to the case with a clear understanding. He had sometimes been afraid that Whitwell might not be able to keep it to himself; but now he wished that the philosopher had not been so discreet. He had all this so absorbingly in mind that he started presently with the fear that she had said something and he had not answered, but when he asked her he found that she had not spoken. They were standing at an open window looking out upon Lion's Head, when he said: “I don't know how I shall show my gratitude to Mrs. Durgin and you for thinking of having me up here. I've done a picture of Lion's Head that might be ever so much worse; but I shouldn't have dreamed of getting at it if it hadn't been for you, though I've so often dreamed of doing it. Now I shall go home richer in every sort of way-thanks to you.”
She answered, simply: “You needn't thank anybody; but it was Jeff who thought of it; we were ready enough to ask you.”
“That was very good of him,” said Westover, whom her words confirmed in a suspicion he had had all along. But what did it matter that Jeff had suggested their asking him, and then attributed the notion to them? It was not so malign for him to use that means of ingratiating himself with Westover, and of making him forget his behavior with Lynde, and it was not unnatural. It was very characteristic; at the worst it merely proved that Jeff was more ashamed of what he had done than he would allow, and that was to his credit.
He heard Cynthia asking: “Mr. Westover, have you ever been at Class Day? He wants us to come.”
“Class Day? Oh, Class Day!” He took a little time to gather himself together. “Yes, I've been at a good many. If you care to see something pretty, it's the prettiest thing in the world. The students' sisters and mothers come from everywhere; and there's fashion and feasting and flirting, from ten in the morning till ten at night. I'm not sure there's so much happiness; but I can't tell. The young people know about that. I fancy there's a good deal of defeat and disappointment in it all. But if you like beautiful dresses, and music and dancing, and a great flutter of gayety, you can get more of it at Class Day than you can in any other way. The good time depends a great deal upon the acquaintance a student has, and whether he is popular in college.” Westover found this road a little impassable, and he faltered.
Cynthia did not apparently notice his hesitation. “Do you think Mrs. Durgin would like it?”
“Mrs. Durgin?” Westover found that he had been leaving her out of the account, and had been thinking only of Cynthia's pleasure or pain. “Well, I don't suppose—it would be rather fatiguing—Did Jeff want her to come too?”
“He said so.”
“That's very nice of him. If he could devote himself to her; but—And would she like to go?”
“To please him, she would.” Westover was silent, and the girl surprised him by the appeal she suddenly made to him. “Mr. Westover, do you believe it would be very well for either of us to go? I think it would be better for us to leave all that part of his life alone. It's no use in pretending that we're like the kind of people he knows, or that we know their ways, and I don't believe—”
Westover felt his heart rise in indignant sympathy. “There isn't any one he knows to compare with you!” he said, and in this he was thinking mainly of Bessie Lynde. “You're worth a thousand—If I were—if he's half a man he would be proud—I beg your pardon! I don't mean—but you understand—”
Cynthia put her head far out of the window and looked along the steep roof before them. “There is a blind off one of the windows. I heard it clapping in the wind the other night. I must go and see the number of the room.” She drew her head in quickly and ran away without letting him see her face.
He followed her. “Let me help you put it on again!”
“No, no!” she called back. “Frank will do that, or Jombateeste, when they come to shut up the house.”
XLI.
Westover, did not meet Durgin for several days after his return from Lion's Head. He brought messages for him from his mother and from Whitwell, and he waited for him to come and get them so long that he had to blame himself for not sending them to him. When Jeff appeared, at the end of a week, Westover had a certain embarrassment in meeting him, and the effort to overcome this carried him beyond his sincerity. He was aware of feigning the cordiality he showed, and of having less real liking for him than ever before. He suggested that he must be busier every day, now, with his college work, and he resented the air of social prosperity which Jeff put on in saying, Yes, there was that, and then he had some engagements which kept him from coming in sooner.
He did not say what the engagements were, and they did not recur to the things they had last spoken of. Westover could not do so without Jeff's leading, and he was rather glad that he gave none. He stayed only a little time, which was spent mostly in a show of interest on both sides, and the hollow hilarities which people use to mask their indifference to one another's being and doing. Jeff declared that he had never seen Westover looking so well, and said he must go up to Lion's Head again; it had done him good. As for his picture, it was a corker; it made him feel as if he were there! He asked about all the folks, and received Westover's replies with vague laughter, and an absence in his bold eye, which made the painter wonder what his mind was on, without the wish to find out. He was glad to have him go, though he pressed him to drop in soon again, and said they would take in a play together.
Jeff said he would like to do that, and he asked at the door whether Westover was going to the tea at Mrs. Bellingham's. He said he had to look in there, before he went out to Cambridge; and left Westover in mute amaze at the length he had apparently gone in a road that had once seemed no thoroughfare for him. Jeff's social acceptance, even after the Enderby ball, which was now some six or seven weeks past, had been slow; but of late, for no reason that he or any one else could have given, it had gained a sudden precipitance; and people who wondered why they met him at other houses began to ask him to their own.
He did not care to go to their houses, and he went at first in the hope of seeing Bessie Lynde again. But this did not happen for some time, and it was a mid-Lenten tea that brought them together. As soon as he caught sight of her he went up to her and began to talk as if they had been in the habit of meeting constantly. She could not control a little start at his approach, and he frankly recognized it.
“What's the matter?”
“Oh—the window!”
“It isn't open,” he said, trying it. “Do you want to try it yourself?”
“I think I can trust you,” she answered, but she sank a little into the shelter of the curtains, not to be seen talking with him, perhaps, or not to be interrupted—she did not analyze her motive closely.
He remained talking to her until she went away, and then he continued to go with her. She did not try to escape him after that; each time they met she had the pleasure of realizing that there had never been any danger of what never happened. But beyond this she could perhaps have given no better reason for her willingness to meet him again and again than the bewildered witnesses of the fact. In her set people not only never married outside of it, but they never flirted outside of it. For one of themselves, even for a girl like Bessie, whom they had not quite known from childhood, to be apparently amusing herself with a man like that, so wholly alien in origin, in tradition, was something unheard of; and it began to look as if Bessie Lynde was more than amused. It seemed to Mary Enderby that wherever she went she saw that man talking to Bessie. She could have believed that it was by some evil art that he always contrived to reach Bessie's side, if anything could have been less like any kind of art than the bold push he made for her as soon as he saw her in a room. But sometimes Miss Enderby feared that it was Bessie who used such finesse as there was, and always put herself where he could see her. She waited with trembling for her to give the affair sanction by making her aunt ask him to something at her house. On the other hand, she could not help feeling that Bessie's flirtation was all the more deplorable for the want of some such legitimation.
She did not even know certainly whether Jeff ever called upon Bessie at her aunt's house, till one day the man let him out at the same time he let her in.
“Oh, come up, Molly!” Bessie sang out from the floor above, and met her half-way down the stairs, where she kissed her and led her embraced into the library.
“You don't like my jay, do you, dear?” she asked, promptly.
Mary Enderby turned her face, the mirror of conscience, upon her, and asked: “Is he your jay?”
“Well, no; not just in that sense, Molly. But suppose he was?”
“Then I should have nothing to say.”
“And suppose he wasn't?”
Still Mary Enderby found herself with nothing of all she had a thousand times thought she should say to Bessie if she had ever the slightest chance. It always seemed so easy, till now, to take Bessie in her arms, and appeal to her good sense, her self-respect, her regard for her family and friends; and now it seemed so impossible.
She heard herself answering, very stiffly: “Perhaps I'd better apologize for what I've said already. You must think I was very unjust the last time we mentioned him.”
“Not at all!” cried Bessie, with a laugh that sounded very mocking and very unworthy to her friend. “He's all that you said, and worse. But he's more than you said, and better.”
“I don't understand,” said Mary, coldly.
“He's very interesting; he's original; he's different!”
“Oh, every one says that.”
“And he doesn't flatter me, or pretend to think much of me. If he did, I couldn't bear him. You know how I am, Molly. He keeps me interested, don't you understand, and prowling about in the great unknown where he has his weird being.”
Bessie put her hand to her mouth, and laughed at Mary Enderby with her slanted eyes; a sort of Parisian version of a Chinese motive in eyes.
“I suppose,” her friend said, sadly, “you won't tell me more than you wish.”
“I won't tell you more than I know—though I'd like to,” said Bessie. She gave Mary a sudden hug. “You dear! There isn't anything of it, if that's what you mean.”
“But isn't there danger that there will be, Bessie?” her friend entreated.
“Danger? I shouldn't call it danger, exactly!”
“But if you don't respect him, Bessie—”
“Why, how can I? He doesn't respect me!”
“I know you're teasing, now,” said Mary Enderby, getting up, “and you're quite right. I have no business to—”
Bessie pulled her down upon the seat again. “Yes, you have! Don't I tell you, over and over? He doesn't respect me, because I don't know how to make him, and he wouldn't like it if I did. But now I'll try to make you understand. I don't believe I care for him the least; but mind, I'm not certain, for I've never cared for any one, and I don't know what it's like. You know I'm not sentimental; I think sentiment's funny; and I'm not dignified—”
“You're divine,” murmured Mary Enderby, with reproachful adoration.
“Yes, but you see how my divinity could be improved,” said Bessie, with a wild laugh. “I'm not sentimental, but I'm emotional, and he gives me emotions. He's a riddle, and I'm all the time guessing at him. You get the answer to the kind of men we know easily; and it's very nice, but it doesn't amuse you so much as trying. Now, Mr. Durgin—what a name! I can see it makes you creep—is no more like one of us than a—bear is—and his attitude toward us is that of a bear who's gone so much with human beings that he thinks he's a human being. He's delightful, that way. And, do you know, he's intellectual! He actually brings me books, and wants to read passages to me out of them! He has brought me the plans of the new hotel he's going to build. It's to be very aesthetic, and it's going to be called The Lion's Head Inn. There's to be a little theatre, for amateur dramatics, which I could conduct, and for all sorts of professional amusements. If you should ever come, Molly, I'm sure we shall do our best to make you comfortable.”
Mary Enderby would not let Bessie laugh upon her shoulder after she said this. “Bessie Lynde,” she said, severely, “if you have no regard for yourself, you ought to have some regard for him. You may say you are not encouraging him, and you may believe it—”
“Oh, I shouldn't say it if I didn't believe it,” Bessie broke in, with a mock air of seriousness.
“I must be going,” said Mary, stiffly, and this time she succeeded in getting to her feet.
Bessie laid hold of her again. “You think you've been trifled with, don't you, dear?”
“No—”
“Yes, you do! Don't you try to be slippery, Molly. The plain pikestaff is your style, morally speaking—if any one knows what a pikestaff is. Well, now, listen! You're anxious about me.”
“You know how I feel, Bessie,” said Mary Enderby, looking her in the eyes.
“Yes, I do,” said Bessie. “The trouble is, I don't know how I feel. But if I ever do, Molly, I'll tell you! Is that fair?”
“Yes.”
“I'll give you ample warning. At the least little consciousness in the region of the pericardium, off will go a note by a district messenger, and when you come I'll do whatever you say. There!”
“Oh, Bessie!” cried her friend, and she threw her arms round her, “you always were the most fascinating creature in the world!”
“Yes,” said Bessie, “that's what I try to have him think.”
XLII.
Toward the end of April most people who had places at the Shore were mostly in them, but they came up to town on frequent errands, and had one effect of evanescence with people who still remained in their Boston houses provisionally, and seemed more than half absent. The Enderbys had been at the Shore for a fortnight, and the Lyndes were going to be a fortnight longer in Boston, yet, as Bessie made her friend observe, when Mary, ran in for lunch, or stopped for a moment on her way to the train, every few days, they were both of the same transitory quality.
“It might as well be I as you,” Bessie said one day, “if we only think so. It's all very weird, dear, and I'm not sure but it is you who sit day after day at my lonely casement and watch the sparrows examining the fuzzy buds of the Jap ivy to see just how soon they can hope to build in the vines. Do you object to the ivy buds looking so very much like snipped woollen rags? If you do, I'm sure it's you, here in my place, for when I come up to town in your personality it sets my teeth on edge. In fact, that's the worst thing about Boston now—the fuzzy ivy buds; there's so much ivy! When you can forget the buds, there are a great many things to make you happy. I feel quite as if we were spending the summer in town and I feel very adventurous and very virtuous, like some sort of self-righteous bohemian. You don't know how I look down on people who have gone out of town. I consider them very selfish and heartless; I don't know why, exactly. But when we have a good marrow-freezing northeasterly storm, and the newspapers come out with their ironical congratulations to the tax-dodgers at the Shore, I feel that Providence is on my side, and I'm getting my reward, even in this world.” Bessie suddenly laughed. “I see by your expression of fixed inattention, Molly, that you're thinking of Mr. Durgin!”
Mary gave a start of protest, but she was too honest to deny the fact outright, and Bessie ran on:
“No, we don't sit on a bench in the Common, or even in the Garden, or on the walk in Commonwealth Avenue. If we come to it later, as the season advances, I shall make him stay quite at the other end of the bench, and not put his hand along the top. You needn't be afraid, Molly; all the proprieties shall be religiously observed. Perhaps I shall ask Aunt Louisa to let us sit out on her front steps, when the evenings get warmer; but I assure you it's much more comfortable in-doors yet, even in town, though you'll hardly, believe it at the Shore. Shall you come up to Class Day?”
“Oh, I don't know,” Mary began, with a sigh of the baffled hope and the inextinguishable expectation which the mention of Class Day stirs in the heart of every Boston girl past twenty.
“Yes!” said Bessie, with a sigh burlesqued from Mary's. “That is what we all say, and it is certainly the most maddening of human festivals. I suppose, if we were quite left to ourselves, we shouldn't go; but we seem never to be, quite. After every Class Day I say to myself that nothing on earth could induce me to go to another; but when it comes round again, I find myself grasping at any straw of a pretext. I'm pretending now that I've a tender obligation to go because it's his Class Day.”
“Bessie!” cried Mary Enderby. “You don't mean it!”
“Not if I say it, Mary dear. What did I promise you about the pericardiac symptoms? But I feel—I feel that if he asks me I must go. Shouldn't you like to go and see a jay Class Day—be part of it? Think of going once to the Pi Ute spread—or whatever it is! And dancing in their tent! And being left out of the Gym, and Beck! Yes, I ought to go, so that it can be brought home to me, and I can have a realizing sense of what I am doing, and be stayed in my mad career.”
“Perhaps,” Mary Enderby suggested, colorlessly, “he will be devoted to his own people.” She had a cold fascination in the picture Bessie's words had conjured up, and she was saying this less to Bessie than to herself.
“And I should meet them—his mothers and sisters!” Bessie dramatized an excess of anguish. “Oh, Mary, that is the very thorn I have been trying not to press my heart against; and does your hand commend it to my embrace? His folks! Yes, they would be folks; and what folks! I think I am getting a realizing sense. Wait! Don't speak don't move, Molly!” Bessie dropped her chin into her hand, and stared straight forward, gripping Mary Enderby's hand.
Mary withdrew it. “I shall have to go, Bessie,” she said. “How is your aunt?”
“Must you? Then I shall always say that it was your fault that I couldn't get a realizing sense—that you prevented me, just when I was about to see myself as others see me—as you see me. She's very well!” Bessie sighed in earnest, and her friend gave her hand a little pressure of true sympathy. “But of course it's rather dull here, now.”
“I hate to have you staying on. Couldn't you come down to us for a week?”
“No. We both think it's best to be here when Alan gets back. We want him to go down with us.” Bessie had seldom spoken openly with Mary Enderby about her brother; but that was rather from Mary's shrinking than her own; she knew that everybody understood his case. She went so far now as to say: “He's ever so much better than he has been. We have such hopes of him, if he can keep well, when he gets back this time.”
“Oh, I know he will,” said Mary, fervently. “I'm sure of it. Couldn't we do something for you, Bessie?”
“No, there isn't anything. But—thank you. I know you always think of me, and that's worlds. When are you coming up again?”
“I don't know. Next week, some time.”
“Come in and see me—and Alan, if he should be at home. He likes you, and he will be so glad.”
Mary kissed Bessie for consent. “You know how much I admire Alan. He could be anything.”
“Yes, he could. If he could!”
Bessie seldom put so much earnest in anything, and Mary loved (as she would have said) the sad sincerity, the honest hopelessness of her tone. “We must help him. I know we can.”
“We must try. But people who could—if they could—” Bessie stopped.
Her friend divined that she was no longer speaking wholly of her brother, but she said: “There isn't any if about it; and there are no ifs about anything if we only think so. It's a sin not to think so.”
The mixture of severity and of optimism in the nature of her friend had often amused Bessie, and it did not escape her tacit notice in even so serious a moment as this. Her theory was that she was shocked to recognize it now, because of its relation to her brother, but her theories did not always agree with the facts.
That evening, however, she was truly surprised when, after a rather belated ring at the door, the card of Mr. Thomas Jefferson Durgin came up to her from the reception-room. Her aunt had gone to bed, and she had a luxurious moment in which she reaped all the reward of self-denial by supposing herself to have foregone the pleasure of seeing him, and sending down word that she was not at home. She did not wish, indeed, to see him, but she wished to know how he felt warranted in calling in the evening, and it was this unworthy, curiosity which she stifled for that luxurious moment. The next, with undiminished dignity, she said, “Ask him to come up, Andrew,” and she waited in the library for him to offer a justification of the liberty he had taken.
He offered none whatever, but behaved at once as if he had always had the habit of calling in the evening, or as if it was a general custom which he need not account for in his own case. He brought her a book which they had talked of at their last meeting, but he made no excuse or pretext of it.
He said it was a beautiful night, and that he had found it rather warm walking in from Cambridge. The exercise had moistened his whole rich, red color, and fine drops of perspiration stood on his clean-shaven upper lip and in the hollow between his under lip and his bold chin; he pushed back the coarse, dark-yellow hair from his forehead with his handkerchief, and let his eyes mock her from under his thick, straw-colored eyebrows. She knew that he was enjoying his own impudence, and he was so handsome that she could not refuse to enjoy it with him. She asked him if he would not have a fan, and he allowed her to get it for him from the mantel. “Will you have some tea?”
“No; but a glass of water, if you please,” he said, and Bessie rang and sent for some apollinaris, which Jeff drank a great goblet of when it came. Then he lay back in the deep chair he had taken, with the air of being ready for any little amusing thing she had to say.
“Are you still a pessimist, Mr. Durgin?” she asked, tentatively, with the effect of innocence that he knew meant mischief.
“No,” he said. “I'm a reformed optimist.”
“What is that?”
“It's a man who can't believe all the good he would like, but likes to believe all the good he can.”
Bessie said it over, with burlesque thoughtfulness. “There was a girl here to-day,” she said, solemnly, “who must have been a reformed pessimist, then, for she said the same thing.”
“Oh! Miss Enderby,” said Jeff.
Bessie started. “You're preternatural! But what a pity you should be mistaken. How came you to think of her?”
“She doesn't like me, and you always put me on trial after she's been here.”
“Am I putting you on trial now? It's your guilty conscience! Why shouldn't Mary Enderby like you?”
“Because I'm not good enough.”
“Oh! And what has that to do with people's liking you? If that was a reason, how many friends do you think you would have?”
“I'm not sure that I should have any.”
“And doesn't that make you feel badly?”
“Very.” Jeff's confession was a smiling one.
“You don't show it!”
“I don't want to grieve you.”
“Oh, I'm not sure that would grieve me.”
“Well, I thought I wouldn't risk it.”
“How considerate of you!”
They had come to a little barrier, up that way, and could go no further. Jeff said: “I've just been interviewing another reformed pessimist.”
“Mr. Westover?”
“You're preternatural, too. And you're not mistaken, either. Do you ever go to his studio?”
“No; I haven't been there since he told me it would be of no use to come as a student. He can be terribly frank.”
“Nobody knows that better than I do,” said Jeff, with a smile for the notion of Westover's frankness as he had repeatedly experienced it. “But he means well.”
“Oh, that's what they always say. But all the frankness can't be well meant. Why should uncandor be the only form of malevolence?”
“That's a good idea. I believe I'll put that up on Westover the next time he's frank.”
“And will you tell me what he says?”
“Oh, I don't know about that.” Jeff lay back in his chair at large ease and chuckled. “I should like to tell you what he's just been saying to me, but I don't believe I can.”
“Do!”
“You know he was up at Lion's Head in February, and got a winter impression of the mountain. Did you see it?”
“No. Was that what you were talking about?”
“We talked about something a great deal more interesting—the impression he got of me.”
“Winter impression.”
“Cold enough. He had come to the conclusion that I was very selfish and unworthy; that I used other people for my own advantage, or let them use themselves; that I was treacherous and vindictive, and if I didn't betray a man I couldn't be happy till I had beaten him. He said that if I ever behaved well, it came after I had been successful one way or the other.”
“How perfectly fascinating!” Bessie rested her elbow on the corner of the table, and her chin in the palm of the hand whose thin fingers tapped her red lips; the light sleeve fell down and showed her pretty, lean little forearm. “Did it strike you as true, at all?”
“I could see how it might strike him as true.”
“Now you are candid. But go on! What did he expect you to do about it?”
“Nothing. He said he didn't suppose I could help it.”
“This is immense,” said Bessie. “I hope I'm taking it all in. How came he to give you this flattering little impression? So hopeful, too! Or, perhaps your frankness doesn't go any farther?”
“Oh, I don't mind saying. He seemed to think it was a sort of abstract duty he owed to my people.”
“Your-folks?” asked Bessie.
“Yes,” said Jeff, with a certain dryness. But as her face looked blankly innocent, he must have decided that she meant nothing offensive. He relaxed into a broad smile. “It's a queer household up there, in the winter. I wonder what you would think of it.”
“You might describe it to me, and perhaps we shall see.”
“You couldn't realize it,” said Jeff, with a finality that piqued her. He reached out for the bottle of apollinaris, with somehow the effect of being in another student's room, and poured himself a glass. This would have amused her, nine times out of ten, but the tenth time had come when she chose to resent it.
“I suppose,” she said, “you are all very much excited about Class Day at Cambridge.”
“That sounds like a remark made to open the way to conversation.” Jeff went on to burlesque a reply in the same spirit. “Oh, very much so indeed, Miss Lynde! We are all looking forward to it so eagerly. Are you coming?”
She rejected his lead with a slight sigh so skilfully drawn that it deceived him when she said, gravely:
“I don't know. It's apt to be a very baffling time at the best. All the men that you like are taken up with their own people, and even the men that you don't like overvalue themselves, and think they're doing you a favor if they give you a turn at the Gym or bring you a plate of something.”
“Well, they are, aren't they?”
“I suppose, yes, that's what makes me hate it. One doesn't like to have such men do one a favor. And then, Juniors get younger every year! Even a nice Junior is only a Junior,” she concluded, with a sad fall of her mocking voice.
“I don't believe there's a Senior in Harvard that wouldn't forsake his family and come to the rescue if your feelings could be known,” said Jeff. He lifted the bottle at his elbow and found it empty, and this seemed to remind him to rise.
“Don't make them known, please,” said Bessie. “I shouldn't want an ovation.” She sat, after he had risen, as if she wished to detain him, but when he came up to take leave she had to put her hand in his. She looked at it there, and so did he; it seemed very little and slim, about one-third the size of his palm, and it seemed to go to nothing in his grasp. “I should think,” she added, “that the jays would have the best time on Class Day. I should like to dance at one of their spreads, and do everything they did. It would be twice the fun, and there would be some nature in it. I should like to see a jay Class Day.”
“If you'll come out, I'll show you one,” said Jeff, without wincing.
“Oh, will you?” she said, taking away her hand. “That would be delightful. But what would become of your folks?” She caught a corner of her mouth with her teeth, as if the word had slipped out.
“Do you call them folks?” asked Jeff, quietly:
“I—supposed—Don't you?”
“Not in Boston. I do at Lion's Head.”
“Oh! Well-people.”
“I don't know as they're coming.”
“How delightful! I don't mean that; but if they're not, and if you really knew some jays, and could get me a little glimpse of their Class Day—”
“I think I could manage it for you.” He spoke as before, but he looked at her with a mockery in his lips and eyes as intelligent as her own, and the latent change in his mood gave her the sense of being in the presence of a vivid emotion. She rose in her excitement; she could see that he admired her, and was enjoying her insolence too, in a way, though in a way that she did not think she quite understood; and she had the wish to make him admire her a little more.
She let a light of laughter come into her eyes, of harmless mischief played to an end. “I don't deserve your kindness, and I won't come. I've been very wicked, don't you think?”
“Not very—for you,” said Jeff.
“Oh, how good!” she broke out. “But be frank now! I've offended you.”
“How? I know I'm a jay, and in the country I've got folks.”
“Ah, I see you're hurt at my joking, and I'm awfully sorry. I wish there was some way of making you forgive me. But it couldn't be that alone,” she went on rather aimlessly as to her words, trusting to his answer for some leading, and willing meanwhile to prolong the situation for the effect in her nerves. It had been a very dull and tedious day, and she was finding much more than she could have expected in the mingled fear and slight which he inspired her with in such singular measure. These feminine subtleties of motive are beyond any but the finest natures in the other sex, and perhaps all that Jeff perceived was the note of insincerity in her words.
“Couldn't be what alone?” he asked.
“What I've said,” she ventured, letting her eyes fall; but they were not eyes that fell effectively, and she instantly lifted them again to his.
“You haven't said anything, and if you've thought anything, what have I got to do with that? I think all sorts of things about people—or folks, as you call them—”
“Oh, thank you! Now you are forgiving me!”
“I think them about you!”
“Oh, do sit down and tell me the kind of things you think about me!” Bessie implored, sinking back into her chair.
“You mightn't like them.”
“But if they would do me good?”
“What should I want to do you good for?”
“That's true,” sighed Bessie, thoughtfully.
“People—folks—”
“Thank you so much!”
“Don't try to do each other good, unless they're cranks like Lancaster, or bores like Mrs. Bevidge—”
“You belong to the analytical school of Seniors! Go on!”
“That's all,” said Jeff.
“And you don't think I've tried to do you good?”
He laughed. Her comedy was delicious to him. He had never found, anybody so amusing; he almost respected her for it.
“If that is your opinion of me, Mr. Durgin,” she said, very gravely, “I am sorry. May I remark that I don't see why you come, then?”
“I can tell you,” said Jeff, and he advanced upon her where she sat so abruptly that she started and shrank back in her chair. “I come because you've got brains, and you're the only girl that has—here.” They were Alan's words, almost his words, and for an instant she thought of her brother, end wondered what he would think of this jay's praising her in his terms. “Because,” Jeff went on, “you've got more sense and nonsense—than all the women here put together. Because it's better than a play to hear you talk—and act; and because you're graceful—and fascinating, and chic, and—Good-night, Miss Lynde.”
He put out his hand, but she did not take it as she rose haughtily. “We've said good-night once. I prefer to say good-bye this time. I'm sure you will understand why after this I cannot see you again.” She seemed to examine him for the effect of these words upon him before she went on.
“No, I don't understand,” he answered, coolly; “but it isn't necessary I should; and I'm quite willing to say good-bye, if you prefer. You haven't been so frank with me as I have with you; but that doesn't make any difference; perhaps you never meant to be, or couldn't be, if you meant. Good-bye.” He bowed and turned toward the door.
She fluttered between him and it. “I wish to know what you accuse me of!”
“I? Nothing.”
“You imply that I have been unjust toward you.”
“Oh no!”
“And I can't let you go till you prove it.”
“Prove to a woman that—Will you let me pass?”