The Trumpeter Swan

CHAPTER XII

IN­DI­AN--IN­DI­AN

I

The Mer­ri­weath­er for­tunes had not been af­fect­ed by the fall of the Con­fed­er­acy. There had been mon­ey in­vest­ed in Eu­ro­pean ven­tures, and when peace had come in six­ty-​five, the old grey stone house had again flung wide its doors to the dis­tin­guished guests who had al­ways hon­ored it, and had re­sumed its an­cient cus­tom of an an­nu­al har­vest ball.

The ball­room, built at the back of the main house, was con­nect­ed with it by wide curv­ing cor­ri­dors, which con­tained the fam­ily por­traits, and which had long win­dows which opened out on lit­tle bal­conies. On the night of the ball these bal­conies were light­ed by round yel­low lanterns, so that the ef­fect from the out­side was that of a suc­ces­sion of full moons.

The ball­room was oc­tag­onal, and canopied with a blue ceil­ing stud­ded with sil­ver stars. There were cu­pids with gar­lands on the side walls, and fad­ed blue bro­cade hang­ings. Across one end of the ball­room was the long gallery re­served for those whom the Mer­ri­weath­ers still called “the ten­antry,” and it was here that Mary and Mrs. Flip­pin al­ways sat af­ter bak­ing cakes.

Mrs. Flip­pin had not baked the cakes to-​day, nor was she in the gallery, for her daugh­ter, Mary, was among the guests on the ball­room floor, and her moth­er's own good sense had kept her at home.

“I shall look af­ter Miss MacVeigh,” she had said. “I want Trux­ton to bring you over and show you in your pret­ty new dress.”

When they came, Madge, who was sit­ting up, in­sist­ed that she, too, must see Mary. “My dear, my dear,” she said, “what a won­der­ful frock.”

“Yes,” Mary said, “it is. It is one of Becky's, and she gave it to me. And the turquois­es are Mrs. Beau­fort's.”

Madge, who knew the whole al­pha­bet of smart cos­tumers, was aware of the so­phis­ti­cat­ed per­fec­tion of that fluff of jade green tulle. The touch of gold at the gir­dle, the flash of gold for the pet­ti­coat. She guessed the price, a stiff one, and won­dered that Mary should speak of it ca­su­al­ly as “one of Becky's.”

“The turquois­es are the per­fect touch.”

“That was Becky's idea. It seemed queer to me at first, blue with the green. But she said if I just wore this band around my hair, and the ring. And it does seem right, doesn't it?”

“It is per­fect. What is Miss Ban­nis­ter wear­ing?”

“Sil­ver and white--lace, you know. The new kind, like a cob­web--with sil­ver un­der­neath--and a rose-​col­ored fan--and pearls. You should see her pearls, Miss MacVeigh. Tell her about them, Trux­ton.”

“Well, once up­on a time they be­longed to a queen. Becky's great-​grand­fa­ther on the Mered­ith side was a diplo­mat in Paris, and he bought them, or so the sto­ry runs. Becky on­ly wears a part of them. The rest are in the fam­ily vaults.”

Madge lis­tened, and showed no sur­prise. But that ac­count of lace and sil­ver, and price­less pearls did not sound in the least like the new lit­tle girl about whom George had, in the few times that she had seen him of late, been so silent.

“If on­ly Flo­ra would get well, and let me leave this beast­ly hole,” had been the bur­den of his com­plaint.

“I thought you liked it.”

“It is well enough for a time.”

“What about the new lit­tle girl?”

He was plain­ly em­bar­rassed, but bluffed it out. “I wish you wouldn't ask ques­tions.”

“I wish you wouldn't be--rude--Georgie-​Porgie.”

“I hate that name, Madge. Any man has a right to be rude when a wom­an calls him 'Georgie-​Porgie.'”

“So that's it? Well, now run along. And please don't come again un­til you are nice--and smil­ing.”

“Oh, look here, Madge.”

“Run along----”

“But there isn't any place to run.”

Laugh­ter lurked in her eyes. “Oh, Georgie-​Porgie--for once in your life can't you run away?”

“Do you think you are fun­ny?”

“Per­haps not. Smile a lit­tle, Georgie.”

“How can any­body smile, with ev­ery­body sick?”

“Oh, no, we're not. We are bet­ter. I am so glad that Flo­ra is im­prov­ing.”

“Os­car thinks it is be­cause that lit­tle old man prayed for her. Fan­cy Os­car----”

Madge med­itat­ed. “Yet it might be, you know, George. There are things in that old man's pe­ti­tion that tran­scend all our phi­los­ophy.”

“Oh, you're as bad as Os­car,” said George. He rose and stood frown­ing on the thresh­old. “Well, good-​bye, Madge.”

“Good-​bye, Georgie, and smile when you come again.”

She had guessed then that some­thing had gone wrong in the game with the new lit­tle girl. She had a con­sum­ing cu­rios­ity to know the de­tails. But she could nev­er force things with Georgie. Some day, per­haps, he would tell her.

And now here was news in­deed! She wait­ed un­til young Beau­fort and his wife had driv­en away, and un­til Mrs. Flip­pin had time for that qui­et hour by her bed­side.

“Mary looked love­ly,” said Madge.

“Didn't she?” Mrs. Flip­pin rocked and talked. “You would nev­er have known that dress was made for any­body but for Mary. Becky gave Mary an­oth­er dress out of a lot she had down from New York. It is yel­low or­gandie, made by hand and with lit­tle em­broi­dered scal­lops.”

Madge knew the house which made a spe­cial­ty of those or­gandie gowns with em­broi­dered scal­lops, and she knew the price.

“But how does--Becky man­age to have such love­ly things?”

“Oh, she's rich,” Mrs. Flip­pin was rock­ing com­fort­ably. “You would nev­er know it, and no­body thinks of it much. But she's got mon­ey. From her grand­moth­er. And there was some­thing in the will about hav­ing her live out of the world as long as she could. That's why they sent her to a con­vent and kept her down here as much as pos­si­ble. She ain't ev­er seemed to care for clothes. She could al­ways have had any­thing she want­ed, but she ain't cared. She told Mary that she had a sud­den no­tion to have some pret­ty things, and she sent for them, and it was lucky for Mary that she did. She couldn't have gone to this ball, for there wasn't any time to get any­thing made. Mr. Flip­pin and I are go­ing to buy her some nice things when she goes to Rich­mond. But they won't be like the things that Becky gets, of course.”

Madge, lis­ten­ing to fur­ther de­tails of the Mered­ith for­tunes, won­dered how much of this Georgie knew. “Becky's moth­er died when she was five, and her fa­ther two years lat­er,” Mrs. Flip­pin was say­ing. “She might have been spoiled to death if she had been brought up as some chil­dren are. But she has spent her win­ters at the con­vent with Sis­ter Loret­to, and she's nev­er worn much of any­thing but the uni­form of the school. You wouldn't think that she had any mon­ey to see her, would you, Miss MacVeigh?”

“No, you wouldn't,” said Madge, truth­ful­ly.

It was af­ter nine o'clock--a warm night--with no sound but the tick­ing of the clock and the in­sis­tent hum of lo­custs.

“Mrs. Flip­pin,” said Madge, “I wish you'd call up Hamil­ton Hill and ask for Mr. Dal­ton, and tell him that Miss MacVeigh would like to have him come and see her if he has noth­ing else on hand.”

Mrs. Flip­pin looked her as­ton­ish­ment. “To-​night?”

“Oh, I am not go­ing to re­ceive him this way,” Madge re­as­sured her. “If he can come, I'll get nurse to dress me and make me com­fy in the sit­ting-​room.”

Hav­ing as­cer­tained that Dal­ton would be over at once, the nurse was called, and Madge was made ready. It was a rather high-​hand­ed pro­ceed­ing, and both Mrs. Flip­pin and the nurse stood aghast.

The nurse protest­ed. “You re­al­ly ought not, Miss MacVeigh.”

“I love to do things that I ought not to do.”

“But you'll tire your­self.”

“If you were my Mary,” said Mrs. Flip­pin severe­ly, “I wouldn't let you have your way----”

“I love to have my own way, Mrs. Flip­pin. And--I am not your Mary”--then fear­ing that she had hurt the kind heart, she caught Mrs. Flip­pin's hand in her own and kissed it,--“but I wish I were. You're such a love­ly moth­er.”

Mrs. Flip­pin smiled at her. “I'm as near like your moth­er as a hen is moth­er to a blue­bird.”

Madge, robed in the mauve gown, re­fused to have her hair touched. “I like it in braids,” and so when George came there she sat in the sit­ting-​room, all gold and mauve--a charm­ing pic­ture for his sulky eyes.

“Oh,” she said, as he came in, in a gray sack suit, with a gray cap in his hand, “why, you aren't even dressed for din­ner!”

“Why should I be?” he de­mand­ed. “Kemp has left me.”

She had ex­pect­ed some­thing dif­fer­ent. “Kemp?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He didn't give any rea­son. Just said he was go­ing--and went. He said he had in­tend­ed to go be­fore, and had on­ly stayed un­til Mrs. Wa­ter­man was bet­ter. Of­fered to stay on a lit­tle longer if it would em­bar­rass me any to have him leave. I told him that if he want­ed to go, he could get out now. And he is pack­ing his bags.”

“But what will you do with­out him?”

“I have wired to New York for a Jap.”

“Where will Kemp go?”

“To King's Crest. To work for that lame of­fi­cer--Prime.”

“Oh--Ma­jor Prime? How did it hap­pen?”

“Heav­en on­ly knows. I call it a mean trick.”

“Well, of course, Kemp had a right to go if he want­ed to. And per­haps you will like a Jap bet­ter. You al­ways said Kemp was too in­de­pen­dent.”

“He is,” short­ly, “but I hate to be up­set. It seems as if ev­ery­thing goes wrong these days. What did you want with me, Madge?”

Her eye­lash­es flick­ered as she sur­veyed him. “I want­ed to see you--smile, Georgie.”

“You didn't bring me down here to tell me that----” But in spite of him­self the cor­ners of his lips curled. “Oh, what's the an­swer, Madge?” he said, and laughed in spite of him­self.

“I want­ed to talk a lit­tle about--your Becky.”

His laugh­ter died at once. “Well, I'm not go­ing to talk about her.”

“Please--I am dy­ing of cu­rios­ity--I hear that she is very--rich, Georgie.”

“Rich?”

“Yes. She has oo­dles of mon­ey----”

“I don't be­lieve it.”

“But it is true, Georgie.”

“Who told you?”

“Mrs. Flip­pin.”

“It is all--rot----”

“It isn't rot, Georgie. Mrs. Flip­pin knows about it. Becky in­her­its from her Mered­ith grand­moth­er. And her grand­fa­ther is Ad­mi­ral Mered­ith of Nan­tuck­et, with a big house on Bea­con Street in Boston. And they all be­long to the in­ner cir­cle.”

He stared at her. “But Becky doesn't look it. She doesn't wear rings and things.”

“'Rings on her fin­gers and bells on her toes'? Oh, George, did you think it had to be like that when peo­ple had mon­ey? Why, her pearls be­longed to a queen.” She told him their his­to­ry.

It came back to him with a shock that he had said to Becky that the pearls cheap­ened her. “If they were _re­al_,” he had said.

“It was rather strange the way I found it out,” Madge was say­ing. “Mary Flip­pin had on the most per­fect gown--with all the marks on it of ex­clu­sive Fifth Av­enue. She was go­ing to the Mer­ri­weath­er ball, and Becky is to be there.”

She saw him gath­er him­self to­geth­er. “It is rather a Cin­derel­la sto­ry, isn't it?” he asked, with as­sumed light­ness.

“Yes,” she said, “but I thought you'd like to know.”

“What if I knew al­ready?”

She laughed and let it go at that. “I'm lone­some, Georgie, talk to me,” she said. But he was not in a mood to talk. And at last she sent him away. And when he had gone she sat there a long time and thought about him. There had been a look in his eyes which made her al­most sor­ry. It seemed in­cred­ible as she came to think of it that any­body should ev­er be sor­ry for Georgie.

II

Since that night with Becky in the gar­den at Hunters­field George had been torn by con­flict­ing emo­tions. He knew him­self at last in love. He knew him­self beat­en at the game by a lit­tle shab­by girl, and a lanky youth who had been her cham­pi­on.

He would not ac­knowl­edge that the thing was end­ed, and in the end he had writ­ten her a let­ter. He cried to Heav­en that a mar­riage be­tween her and young Paine would be a crime. “How can you love him, Becky--you are mine.”

The let­ter had been re­turned un­opened. His burn­ing phras­es might have been dead ash­es for all the good they had done. She had not read them.

And now Madge had told him the un­be­liev­able thing--that Becky Ban­nis­ter, the shab­by Becky of the sim­ple cot­tons and the stubbed shoes, was rich, not as Wa­ter­man was rich, flam­boy­ant­ly, vul­gar­ly, with an eye to let­ting all the world know. But rich in a thor­ough­bred fash­ion, scorn­ing dis­play--he knew the kind, se­cure in a knowl­edge of the unas­sail­able as­sets of birth and breed­ing and sol­id fi­nan­cial stand­ing.

No won­der young Paine want­ed to mar­ry her. George, driv­ing through the night, set his teeth. He was see­ing Randy, poor as Job's turkey, with Becky's mon­ey for a back­ground.

Well, he should not have it. He should not have Becky.

George head­ed his car for the Mer­ri­weath­ers'. Becky was there, and he was go­ing to see Becky. How he was to see her he left to the in­spi­ra­tion of the mo­ment.

He parked his car by the road, and walked through the great stone gates. The pala­tial res­idence was il­lu­mined from top to bot­tom, its win­dows great squares of gold against the night. The door stood open, but ex­cept for a ser­vant or two there was no one in the wide hall. The guests were danc­ing in the ball­room at the back, and George caught the lilt of the mu­sic as he skirt­ed the house, then the sound of voic­es, the light laugh­ter of the wom­en, the deep­er voic­es of the men.

The lit­tle bal­conies, light­ed by the yel­low lanterns, were emp­ty. As soon as the mu­sic stopped they would be filled with dancers seek­ing the cool­ness of the out­er air. He stood look­ing up, and sud­den­ly, as if the stage had been set, Becky stepped out on the bal­cony straight in front of him, and stood un­der the yel­low lantern. The light was dim, but it gave to her white skin, to her lace frock, to the pink fan, a faint gold­en glow. She might have been trans­mut­ed from flesh in­to some fine met­al. George had not heard the Ma­jor's name for her, “Made­moi­selle Mi­das,” but he had a feel­ing that the lit­tle gold­en fig­ure was sym­bol­ic--here was the re­al Gold­en Girl for him--not Madge or any oth­er wom­an.

Randy was with her, back in the shad­ow, but un­mis­tak­able, his lean height, the lift of his head.

George moved for­ward un­til, hid­den by a bush, he was al­most un­der the bal­cony. He could catch the mur­mur of their voic­es. But not a word that they said was in­tel­li­gi­ble.

They were talk­ing of Mary. Her in­tro­duc­tion to her hus­band's friends had been an or­deal for Bob Flip­pin's daugh­ter. But she had gone through it sim­ply, qui­et­ly, un­af­fect­ed­ly, with the Judge by her side stand­ing spon­sor for his son's wife in chival­rous and state­ly fash­ion, with Mrs. Beau­fort at her el­bow help­ing her over the ini­tial small talk of her pre­sen­ta­tion. With Trux­ton beam­ing, and with Becky draw­ing her in­to that charmed cir­cle of the younger set which might so eas­ily have shut her out. More than one of those younger folk had had it in mind that at last year's ball Mary Flip­pin had sat in the gallery. But not even the most snob­bish of them would have dared to brave Becky Ban­nis­ter's dis­plea­sure. Back of her clear-​eyed seren­ity was a spir­it which flamed and a strength which ac­com­plished. Becky was an ami­able young per­son who could flash fire at un­fair­ness or in­jus­tice or un­due as­sump­tion of su­pe­ri­or­ity.

The mu­sic had stopped and the bal­conies were filled. George, in the dark­ness, was aware of the beau­ty of the scene--the lantern mak­ing yel­low moons--the gold­en groups be­neath them. Mary and Trux­ton with a friend or two were in the bal­cony ad­join­ing the one where Becky sat with young Paine.

“Isn't she a dear and a dar­ling, Randy?” Becky was say­ing; “and how well she car­ries it off. Trux­ton is so proud of her, and she is so pret­ty.”

“She can't hold a can­dle to you, Becky.”

“It is nice of you to say it.” She leaned on the stone balustrade and swung her fan idly.

“I am not say­ing it to be nice.”

“Aren't you--oh----!” She gave a quick ex­cla­ma­tion.

“What's the mat­ter?”

“I dropped my fan.”

“I'll go and get it,” he said, and just then the mu­sic start­ed.

“No,” said Becky, “nev­er mind now. This is your dance with Mary--and she mustn't be kept wait­ing.”

“Aren't you danc­ing this?”

“It is Trux­ton's, and I begged off. Run along, dear boy.”

When he was gone she leaned over the rail. Be­low was a tan­gle of bush­es, and the white gleam of a stone bench. Be­yond the bush­es was a path, and far­ther on a foun­tain. It was a rather im­pos­ing foun­tain, with a Nep­tune in bronze rid­ing a sea­horse, with nymphs on dol­phins in at­ten­dance. Nep­tune poured wa­ter from a shell which he held in his hand, and the dol­phins spout­ed great streams. The splash of the wa­ter was a grate­ful sound in the still­ness of the hot night, and the mist which the slight breeze blew to­wards a bed of tuberos­es seemed to bring out their heavy fra­grance. Al­ways af­ter­wards when Becky thought of that night, there would come to her again that heavy scent and the splash of stream­ing wa­ter.

“Becky,” a voice came up from be­low, “I have your fan.”

She peered down in­to the dark­ness, but did not speak.

“Becky, I am pun­ished enough, and I am--starved for you----”

“Give me my fan----”

“I want to talk to you--I must--talk to you----”

“Give me my fan----”

“I can't reach----”

“You can stand on that bench.”

He stood on it, and she could see his fig­ure faint­ly de­fined.

“I am afraid I am still too far away. Lean over a bit, Becky--and I'll hand it to you.”

She stretched her white arm down in­to the dark­ness. Her hand was caught in a strong clasp. “Becky, give me just five min­utes by the foun­tain.”

“Let me go.”

“Not un­til you promise that you'll come.”

“I shall nev­er promise.”

“Then I shall keep your fan----”

“Keep it--I have oth­ers.”

“But you will think about this one, be­cause I have it.” There was a note of tri­umph in his soft laugh.

He kissed her fin­ger-​tips and re­luc­tant­ly re­leased her hand. “The fan is mine, then, un­til you ask for it.”

“I shall nev­er ask.”

“Who knows? Some day you may--who knows?” and he was gone.

He could not have cho­sen a bet­ter way in which to fire her imag­ina­tion. His voice in the dark, his laugh­ing tri­umph, the dar­ing theft of her fan. Her heart fol­lowed him, see­ing him a Con­queror even in this, see­ing him a rob­ber with his rose-​col­ored booty, a Robin Hood of the Gar­den, a Dick Turpin among the tuberos­es.

The spir­it of Ro­mance went with him. The things that Pride had done for her looked gray and dull. She had promised to mar­ry Randy, and felt that she faced a some­what sober fu­ture. Set against it was all that George had giv­en her, the sparkle and dash and col­or of his ar­dent pur­suit.

He was not worth a thought, yet she thought of him. She was still think­ing of him when Randy came back.

“Did you get your fan?” he asked.

“No. Nev­er mind, Randy. I will have one of the ser­vants look for it.”

“But I do mind.”

She hes­itat­ed. “Well, don't look for it now. Let's go in and join the oth­ers. Are they go­ing down to sup­per?”

Sup­per was served in the great Hunt Room, which was be­low the ball­room. It was a his­toric and pic­turesque place, and had been the scene for over a cen­tu­ry of mer­ry-​mak­ing be­fore and af­ter the fox-​hunts for which the coun­ty was fa­mous. There were two great fire­places, al­most hid­den to-​night by the heaped-​up fruits of the har­vest, or­ange and red and green, with corn­stalks and gold­en­rod from the fields for dec­ora­tions.

Becky found Mary alone at a small ta­ble in a cor­ner. Trux­ton had left her to for­age for re­fresh­ments and Randy fol­lowed him.

“Are you hav­ing a good time, Mary?”

Mary did not an­swer at once. Then she said, brave­ly, “I don't quite fit in, Becky. I am still an--out­sider.”

“Oh, Mary!”

“I am not--un­hap­py, and Trux­ton is such a dear. But I shall be glad to get home, Becky.”

“But you look so love­ly, Mary, and ev­ery­body seems so kind.”

“They are, but un­der­neath I am just plain--Mary Flip­pin. They know that, and so do I, and it will take them some time to for­get it.”

There was an anx­ious look in Becky's eyes. “It seems to me that you are feel­ing it more than the oth­ers.”

“Per­haps. And I shouldn't have said any­thing. Don't let Trux­ton know.”

“Has any­one said any­thing to hurt you, Mary?”

“No, but when I dance with the men, I can't speak their lan­guage. I haven't been to the places--I don't know the peo­ple. I am on the out­side.”

Becky had a sud­den for­lorn sense that things were wrong with the whole world. But she didn't want Mary to be un­hap­py.

“Trux­ton loves you,” she said, “and you love him. Don't let any­thing make you mis­er­able when you have--that. Noth­ing else counts, Mary.”

There was a note of pas­sion in her voice which brought a puls­ing re­sponse from Mary.

“It _is_ the on­ly thing that counts, Becky. How sil­ly I am to wor­ry.”

Her young hus­band was com­ing to­wards her--flushed and ea­ger, a prince among men, and he was hers!

As he sat down be­side her, her hand sought his un­der the ta­ble.

He looked down at her. “Hap­py, lit­tle girl?”

“Very hap­py, lover.”

III

Car­oline Paine was hav­ing the time of her life. She wore a new dress of thin mid­night blue which Randy had bought for her and which was very be­com­ing; her hair was waved and dressed, and she had Ma­jor Prime as an at­ten­tive lis­ten­er while she talked of the past and linked it with the present.

“Of course there was a time when the men drank them­selves un­der the ta­bles. Ev­ery­body calls them the 'good old times,' but I reck­on they were bad old times in some ways, weren't they? There was hot blood, and there were du­els. There's no deny­ing it was pic­turesque, Ma­jor, but it was fool­ish for all that. Men don't set­tle things now by shoot­ing each oth­er, ex­cept in a big way like the war. The last du­el was fought by the old foun­tain out there--one of the Mer­ri­weath­ers met one of the Paines. Mer­ri­weath­er was killed, and the girl died of a bro­ken heart.”

“Then it was Mer­ri­weath­er that she loved?”

“Yes. And young Paine went abroad, and joined the British army and was killed in In­dia. So no­body was hap­py, and all be­cause there was, prob­ably, a flow­ing bowl at the har­vest ball. I am glad they don't do it that way now. Just think of my Randy stripped to his shirt and with pis­tols for two. We are more civ­ilized in these days and I'm glad of it.”

“Are we?” said the Ma­jor; “I'm not sure. But I hope so.”

Randy came by just then and spoke to them. “Are you get­ting ev­ery­thing you want, Moth­er?”

“Yes, in­deed. The Ma­jor looked af­ter me. I've had sal­ad twice, and ev­ery­thing else----”

“That sounds greedy, but it isn't, not when you think of the groan­ing boards of oth­er days. Has she been telling you about them, Ma­jor?”

“Yes, she has peo­pled the room with ghosts----”

“Now, Ma­jor!”

“Pleas­ant ghosts--in lace ruf­fles and vel­vet coats, smok­ing long pipes around a punch bowl; beau­ti­ful ghosts in patch­es and pow­der,” he made an ex­pres­sive ges­ture; “they have min­gled with the rest of you--shad­ow-​shapes of youth and love­li­ness.”

“Well, if any­body can tell about it, Moth­er can,” said Randy, “but I don't be­lieve there were ev­er any pret­ti­er girls than are here to-​night.”

“Becky looks like an an­gel,” Mrs. Paine stat­ed, “but she's pale, Randy.”

“She is tired, Moth­er. I think she ought to go home. I shall try to make her when I come back. She dropped her fan and I am go­ing to get it.”

He had not told Becky where he was go­ing. He had slipped away--his mind in­tent on re­gain­ing her prop­er­ty. But when he reached the bush­es and flashed his pock­et-​light on the ground be­neath, there was no fan. It must have fall­en here. He was sure he had made no mis­take.

He de­cid­ed fi­nal­ly that some­one else had found it. It seemed un­like­ly, how­ev­er, for the spot was re­mote, and the thick­ness of the bush­es of­fered a bar­ri­er to any­one strolling ca­su­al­ly through the grounds.

He went slow­ly back to the house. Ev­er since that night when Becky had said she would mar­ry him he had lived in a dream. They were pledged to each oth­er, yet she did not love him. How could he take her? And again, how could he give her up? She had of­fered her­self freely, and he want­ed her in his fu­ture. And there was a fight­ing chance. He had youth and courage and a love for her he chal­lenged any man to match. Why not? Was it be­yond the bounds of rea­son that some day he could make Becky love him?

They had agreed that no one was to be told. “Not un­til I come back from Nan­tuck­et,” Becky had stip­ulat­ed.

“By that time you won't want me, my dear.”

“Well, I shan't if you talk like that,” Becky had said with some spir­it.

“Like what?”

“As if I were a queen and you were a slave. When you were a lit­tle boy you bossed me, Randy.”

There had been a gleam in his eye. “I may again.”

He won­dered if, af­ter all, that would be the way to win her. Yet he shrank from play­ing a game. When she came to him, if she ev­er came, it must be be­cause she found some­thing in him that was love-​wor­thy. At least he could make him­self wor­thy of love, whether she ev­er came to him or not.

He stopped by the foun­tain; just be­yond it the long win­dows of the Hunt Room opened out up­on the lawn. The light lay in gold­en squares up­on the grass. Randy, still in the shad­ow, stood for a mo­ment look­ing in. There were long ta­bles and lit­tle ones, kalei­do­scop­ic col­or, move­ment and light, and Becky back in her cor­ner in the midst of a gay group.

He was aware, sud­den­ly, that he was not the on­ly one who watched. Half hid­den by the shad­ows of one of the great pil­lars of the low­er porch was a man in light flan­nels and a gray cap.

He was not skulk­ing, and in­deed he seemed to have a splen­did in­dif­fer­ence to dis­cov­ery. He was star­ing at Becky and in his hand, a blaze of love­ly col­or against his coat, was Becky's fan!

Randy took a step for­ward. George turned and saw him.

“I was look­ing for that,” Randy said, and held out his hand for the fan.

But Dal­ton did not give it to him. “She knows I have it.”

“How could she know?” Randy de­mand­ed; “she dropped it from the bal­cony.”

“And I was un­der the bal­cony”--George's laugh was tan­ta­liz­ing,--“a pa­tient Romeo.”

“You picked it up.”

“I picked it up. And she knew that I did. Didn't she tell you?”

She had not told him. He re­mem­bered now her un­will­ing­ness to have him search for it.

He had no an­swer for George. But again he held out his hand.

“She will be glad to get it. Will you give it to me?”

“She told me I might--keep it.”

“Keep it----?”

“For re­mem­brance.”

There was a tense pause. “If that is true,” said Randy, “there is, of course, noth­ing else for me to say.”

He turned to go, but George stopped him. “Wait a minute. You are go­ing to mar­ry her?”

“Yes.”

“And she is very--rich.”

“Her mon­ey does not en­ter in­to the mat­ter.”

“Some peo­ple might think it did. There are those who might be un­kind enough to call you a--for­tune-​hunter.”

“I shall be called noth­ing of the kind by those who know me.”

“But there are so many who don't know you.”

“I won­der,” said Randy, fierce­ly, “why I am stay­ing here and let­ting you say such things to me. There is noth­ing you can say which can hurt me. Becky knows--God knows, that I wish she were as poor as pover­ty. Per­haps mon­ey doesn't mean as much to us as it does to you. I wish I had it, yes--so that I could give it to her. But love for us means a tent in the desert--a hut on a moun­tain--it can nev­er mean what we could buy with mon­ey.”

“Does love mean to her,” George's tone was in­ci­sive, “a tent in the desert, a hut on a moun­tain?”

Randy's anger flamed. “I think,” he said, “that I should beg Becky's par­don for bring­ing her name in­to this at all---- And now, will you give me her fan?”

“When she asks for it--yes.”

Randy was breath­ing heav­ily. “Will you give me her--fan----”

The mist from the foun­tain blew cool against his hot cheeks. The wa­ter which old Nep­tune poured from his shell flashed white un­der the stars.

“Let her ask for it----” George's laugh was light.

It was that laugh which made Randy see red. He caught George's wrists sud­den­ly in his hands. “Drop it.”

George stopped laugh­ing. “Let her ask for it,” he said again.

Randy twist­ed the wrists. It was a cru­el trick. But his In­di­an blood was up­per­most.

“Drop it,” he said, with an­oth­er twist, and the fan fell.

But Randy was not sat­is­fied. “Do you think,” he said, “that I am through with you? What you need is tar and feath­ers, but fail­ing that----” he did not fin­ish his sen­tence. He caught George around the body and be­gan to push him back to­wards the foun­tain.

George fought dogged­ly--but Randy was strong with the mus­cu­lar strength of youth and months of mil­itary train­ing.

“I'll kill you for this,” George kept say­ing.

“No,” said Randy, con­serv­ing his breath, “they don't--do it--in--these--days----”

He had Dal­ton now at the rim and with a fi­nal ef­fort of strength he lift­ed him--there was a splash, and in­to the deeps of the great basin went George, while the bronze Nep­tune, and the bronze dol­phins, and the nymphs with flow­ing hair, splashed and spout­ed a wel­com­ing cho­rus that drowned his cry!

Randy, head up, eyes shin­ing, marched in­to the house and had a ser­vant brush him off and pow­der a scratch on his chin; then he went down-​stairs to the Hunt Room and strode across the room un­til he came to where Becky sat in her cor­ner.

“I found your fan,” he told her, and laid it, a blaze of love­ly col­or, on the ta­ble in front of her.