The Trumpeter Swan

CHAPTER XIV

THE DANCER ON THE MOOR

I

Randy's let­ter had set Becky adrift. She was not in love with him. She was sure of that. And he had said he would not mar­ry her with­out love. He had said that if she owned her soul she would think of Dal­ton as a cad and as a cow­ard.

It seemed queer that Randy should be de­mand­ing things of her. He had al­ways been so glad to take any­thing she would give, and now she had of­fered him her­self, and he wouldn't have her. Not till she owned her soul.

She knew what he meant. The thought of George was al­ways with her. She kept see­ing him as she had first seen him at the sta­tion; as he had been that won­der­ful day when they had had tea in the Pavil­ion; the night in the mu­sic room when he had kissed her; the old gar­den with its pale stat­ues and box hedges; and al­ways there was his sparkling glance, his quick voice.

She would nev­er own her soul un­til she for­got George. Un­til she put him out of her life; un­til the thought of him would not make her burn hot with hu­mil­ia­tion; un­til the thought of him would not thrill to her fin­ger-​tips.

She found Cope's easy and hu­mor­ous com­pan­ion­ship a bal­ance for her hid­den emo­tions. And when Louise Cope came, she proved to be a rather high­ly em­pha­sized coun­ter­part of her broth­er. Her red-​gold hair was thick and she wore it bobbed. Her skin was white but lacked the look of del­ica­cy which seemed to con­tra­dict con­stant­ly Cope's vivid per­son­al­ity. She seemed to laugh at the world as he did. She called Becky “quaint,” but took to her at once.

“Archie has been writ­ing to me of you,” she told Becky; “he says you came up like a bird from the south.”

“Birds don't fly north in the fall----”

“Well, you were the--mir­acle,” Cope as­sert­ed.

Louise Cope's shrewd glance stud­ied him. “He has fall­en in love with you, Becky Ban­nis­ter,” was her blunt as­sur­ance, “but you needn't let it wor­ry you. As yet it is on­ly an æs­thet­ic pas­sion. But there is no telling what may come of it----”

“Does he fall in love--like that?” Becky de­mand­ed.

“He has nev­er been in love,” Louise de­clared, “not re­al­ly. Ex­cept with me.”

Becky felt that the Copes were a charm­ing pair. When she an­swered Randy's let­ter she spoke of them.

"Louise adores her broth­er, and she thinks he would be a great artist if he would take him­self se­ri­ous­ly. But nei­ther of them seems to take any­thing se­ri­ous­ly. They al­ways seem to be laugh­ing at the world in a qui­et way. Louise is not pret­ty, but she gives an ef­fect of beau­ty---- She wears a big gray cape and a black vel­vet tam, and I am not sure that the col­or in her cheeks is re­al. She is dif­fer­ent from oth­er peo­ple, but it doesn't seem to be a pose. It is just be­cause she has lived in so many places and has seen so many peo­ple and has thought for her­self. I have al­ways let oth­er peo­ple think for me, haven't I, Randy?

"And now that I have done with the Copes, I am go­ing to talk about the things that you said to me in your let­ter, and which are re­al­ly the im­por­tant things.

"I hat­ed to think that you dropped Mr. Dal­ton in the foun­tain. I hat­ed to think that you want­ed to burn him at the stake--there was some­thing--cru­el--and--dread­ful in it all. I have kept think­ing of that strug­gle be­tween you--in the dark---- I have hat­ed to think that a few years ago if you had felt as you do about him--that you might have--killed him. But per­haps men are like that. They care more for jus­tice than for--mer­cy.

"I am try­ing to take your ad­vice and tell my­self the truth about Mr. Dal­ton. That he isn't worth a thought of mine. Yet I think of him a great deal. I am be­ing very frank with you, Randy, be­cause we have al­ways talked things out. I think of him, and won­der which is the re­al man--the one I thought he was--and I thought him very fine and splen­did. Or is he just tri­fling and com­mon­place? Per­haps he is just be­tween, not as won­der­ful as I thought him, nor as con­temptible as I seem forced to be­lieve.

"Yet I gave him some­thing that it is hard to take back. I gave a great deal. You see I had al­ways been shut up in a glass case like the bob-​whites and the sand­pipers in the Bird Room, and I knew noth­ing of the world. And the first time I tried my wings, I thought I was fly­ing to­wards the sun, and it was just a blaze that--burned me.

“Of course you are right when you say that you won't mar­ry me un­less I love you. I had a queer feel­ing at first about it--as if you were very far away and I couldn't reach you. But I know that you are right, and that you are think­ing of the thing that is best for me. But I know I shall al­ways have you as a friend. I don't think that I shall ev­er love any­body. And af­ter this we won't talk about it. There are so many oth­er things that we have to say to each oth­er that don't hurt----”

Becky could not, of course, know the ef­fect of her let­ter on Randy. The night af­ter its re­ceipt, he roamed the woods. She had thought him cru­el--and dread­ful. Well, let her think it. He was glad that he had dropped George in the foun­tain. He should al­ways be glad. But wom­en were not like that--they were ten­der--and hat­ed--hard­ness. Per­haps that was be­cause they were--moth­ers----

And men were--hard. He had been hard, per­haps, in the things he had said in his let­ter. Her words rang in his ears. “I had a queer feel­ing at first that you were very far away, and that I could not reach you.” And she had said that, when his soul ached to have her near.

Yet he had tried to do the best that he could for Becky. He had felt that she must not be bound by a tie that was no longer need­ed to pro­tect her from Dal­ton. She was safe at 'Scon­set, with the Ad­mi­ral and her new friends the Copes. He en­vied them, their hours with her. He was des­per­ate­ly lone­ly, with a lone­li­ness which had no hope.

He worked in­ten­sive­ly. The board­ers had gone from King's Crest, and he and the Ma­jor had moved in­to the big house. Randy spent a good deal of time in the Judge's li­brary at Hunters­field. He and Trux­ton had great plans for their fu­ture. They read law, sold cars, and talked of their part­ner­ship. The firm was to be “Ban­nis­ter, Paine and Beau­fort”; it was to have brains, con­science, and busi­ness acu­men.

“In the or­der named,” Trux­ton told the Ma­jor. “The Judge has brains, Randy has a con­science. There's noth­ing left for me but to put pep in­to the busi­ness end of it.”

Randy worked, too, on his lit­tle sto­ry. He did not know in the least what he was go­ing to do with it, but it was an out­let for the ques­tions which he kept ask­ing him­self. The war was over and the men who had fought had ceased to be im­por­tant. He and the Ma­jor and Trux­ton talked a great deal about it. The Ma­jor took the high stand of each man's sat­is­fac­tion in the thing he had done. Trux­ton was light-​heart­ed­ly in­dif­fer­ent. He had his Mary, and his fu­ture was be­fore him. But Randy ar­gued that the world ought not to for­get. “It was a rather won­der­ful thing for Amer­ica. I want her to keep on be­ing won­der­ful.”

The Ma­jor in his heart knew that the boy was right. Amer­ica must keep on be­ing won­der­ful. Her young men must go high-​heart­ed to the tasks of peace. It was the high-​heart­ed­ness of peo­ple which had won the war. It would be the high-​heart­ed­ness of men and wom­en which would bring san­ity and seren­ity to a trou­bled world.

“The dif­fi­cul­ty lies in the fact that we are al­ways try­ing to make laws to right the world, when what we need is to form in­di­vid­ual ide­als. The boy who says in his heart, 'I want to be like Lin­coln,' and who stands in front of a stat­ue of Lin­coln, and learns from that rugged coun­te­nance the les­son of sim­ple courage and hon­esty, has a bet­ter chance of a fu­ture than the boy who is told, 'There is evil in the world, and the law pun­ish­es those who transgress.' Half of our Bol­she­viks would be tamed if they had the knowl­edge and love of some sim­ple hero in their hearts, and felt that there was a chance for them to be hero­ic. The war gave them a chance. We have now to show them that there is beau­ty and hero­ism in or­der­ly liv­ing----”

He was talk­ing to Madge. She was still with the Flip­pins. The in­jury to her foot had been more se­ri­ous than it had seemed. She might have gone with Os­car and Flo­ra when they left Hamil­ton Hill. But she pre­ferred to stay. Flo­ra was to go to a hos­pi­tal; Madge would not be need­ed.

“I am go­ing to stay here as long as you will let me,” she said to Mrs. Flip­pin; “you will tell me if I am in the way----”

Mrs. Flip­pin adored Madge. “It is like hav­ing a Princess in the house,” she said, “on­ly she don't act like a Princess.”

The Ma­jor came over ev­ery af­ter­noon. Kemp drove him, as a rule, in the King's Crest sur­rey. If the lit­tle man missed Dal­ton's cars, he said no word. He made the Ma­jor very com­fort­able. He lived a life of ease if not of el­egance, and he loved the wood­ed hills, the gold­en air, the fine old hous­es, the serene au­tumn glo­ry of this south­ern world.

On the af­ter­noon when the Ma­jor talked to Madge of the world at peace, they were to­geth­er un­der the ap­ple tree which Madge had first seen from the win­dow of the east room. There were oth­er ap­ple trees in the old or­chard, but it was this tree that Madge liked be­cause of its gold­en globes. “The red ones are won­der­ful,” she said, “but red isn't my col­or. With my gold skin, they make me look like a gyp­sy. If I am to be a gold­en girl, I must stay away from red----”

“Is that what you are--a gold­en girl?”

“That was al­ways George Dal­ton's name for me.”

“I am sor­ry.”

“Why?”

“Be­cause I should like it to be mine for you. I should like to link my gold­en West with the thought of you.”

“And you won't now, be­cause it was some­body else's name for me?”

Kemp, be­fore he went away, had made her com­fort­able with cush­ions in a chair-​like crotch of the old tree. The Ma­jor was at her feet. He med­itat­ed a mo­ment. “I shall make it my name for you. What do I care what oth­er men have called you.”

“Do you know what you called me--once?” she was smil­ing down at him.

“No.”

“A lit­tle lame duck. It was when I first tried to use my foot. And you laughed, and said that it--linked us--to­geth­er. And now you are try­ing to link me with your West----”

“You know why, of course.”

“Yes, I do.”

He drew a long breath. “Most wom­en would have said, 'No, I don't know.' But you told the truth. I want to link you with my life in ev­ery way I can be­cause I love you. And you know that I care--very much--that I want you for my wife--my gold­en girl in my gold­en West----?”

“You have nev­er told me be­fore that--you cared.”

“There was no need to tell it. You knew.”

“Yes. I was afraid it was true----”

He was star­tled. “Afraid? Why?”

“Oh, I oughtn't to let you care,” she said. “You don't know what a slack­er I've been. And I don't want you to find out----”

“The on­ly thing that I want to find out is whether you care for me.”

She flushed a lit­tle un­der his steady gaze, then quite un­ex­pect­ed­ly she reached her hand down to him. He took it in his firm clasp. “I do care--an aw­ful lot,” she said, “but I've tried not to. And I shouldn't let you care for me.”

“Why--shouldn't?”

“I'm not--half good enough. My life has al­ways been lived at loose ends. Noth­ing bad, but a thou­sand things that you wouldn't--like to hear--I'm not a gold­en girl--I'm a gild­ed one----”

“Why should you tell me things like that? I don't be­lieve it.”

“Please be­lieve it,” she said earnest­ly, “don't white­wash things. Just let me be­gin again--lov­ing you----”

Her voice broke. He drew him­self up, and took her in his arms. “My dear girl,” he said, “my dear girl----”

“I nev­er met a man like you, I nev­er be­lieved there were--such men----” He felt her tears against his hand.

“Lis­ten,” he said qui­et­ly; “let me tell you some­thing of my life.” He told her the things he had told Randy. Of the lit­tle wife he had not loved. “Per­haps if it had not been for her, I should not have had the courage to of­fer to you my--maimed--self. When I mar­ried her I was strong and young and had wealth to give her. Yet I did not give her love. And love is more than all the rest. I have that to give you--you know it.”

“Yes.”

“I have some mon­ey. I don't think it is go­ing to count much with ei­ther of us. What will count is the way we plan our fu­ture. I have a big old ranch, and we'll live in it--with the dairy and the wide kitchen that you've talked about--and you won't have to wait for an­oth­er world, dear­est, to get your heart's de­sire----”

“I have my heart's de­sire,” she whis­pered; “you are--my world.”

II

Madge wrote to George Dal­ton that she was go­ing to mar­ry Ma­jor Prime.

"There is no rea­son why we should put it off, Georgie. The cler­gy­man who prayed for Flo­ra will per­form the cer­emo­ny, and the wed­ding will be at the Flip­pins' farm.

"It seems, of course, too good to be true. Not many wom­en have such luck. Not my kind of wom­en any­way. We meet men as a rule who want us to be gild­ed girls, and not gold­en ones. But Mark wants me to be gold all through. And I shall try to be---- We are to live on his ranch, a place that pass­es in Cal­ifor­nia for a farm--a sort of glo­ri­fied coun­try place. Mrs. Flip­pin is teach­ing me to make but­ter, so that I can su­per­in­tend my own dairy, and I have learned a great deal about chick­ens and eggs.

"I am go­ing to be a house­wife in what I call a rein­car­nat­ed sense--lov­ing my house and the things which be­long to it, and liv­ing as a part of it, not above it, and look­ing down up­on it. Per­haps all Amer­ican wom­en will come to that some day and I shall sim­ply be blaz­ing the way for them. I shall prob­ably grow rosy and round, and if you ev­er ride up to my door-​step, you will find me a bux­om and bloom­ing ma­tron in­stead of a gold­en girl. And you won't like it in the least. But my hus­band will like it, be­cause he thinks a bit as I do about it, and he doesn't care for the wom­an who lives for her looks.

“I shall come and see Flo­ra be­fore I go West. But I am go­ing to be mar­ried first. We both have a feel­ing that it must be now--that some­thing might hap­pen if we put it off, and noth­ing must hap­pen. I love him too much. Of course you won't be­lieve that. I can hard­ly be­lieve it my­self. But I have some­one to climb the heights with me, Georgie, and we shall as­cend to the peak--to­geth­er.”

For a wed­ding present George sent Madge the pen­dant he had bought for Becky. To con­nect it up with Madge's fa­vorite col­or scheme, he had an amethyst put in place of the sap­phire. He was glad to give it away. Ev­ery time he had come up­on it, it had re­mind­ed him of things that he wished to for­get.

Yet he could not for­get. Even as Becky had thought of him, he had thought of her; of her ra­di­ant youth on the morn­ing that Randy had ar­rived; at the Horse Show in her shab­by shoes and sailor hat; in the Bird Room in pale blue un­der the swing­ing lamp; in the mu­sic room be­tween tall can­dles; in the gar­den, with a star shin­ing in­to the still pool; that last night, on the bal­cony, lean­ing over, with a yel­low lantern like a ha­lo be­hind her.

There were oth­er things that he thought of--of Randy, in kha­ki on the sta­tion plat­form; Randy, lean and tall among the board­ers; Randy, left be­hind with Kemp in the rain; Randy, debonair and in­so­lent, an­nounc­ing his en­gage­ment on the ter­race at Hamil­ton Hill; Randy, a shad­ow against a sil­ver sky, an­swer­ing Becky's call; Randy, in the dark by the foun­tain, with mus­cles like iron, forc­ing him in­evitably back, lift­ing him above the basin, let­ting him drop----; Randy, the Con­queror, march­ing away with Becky's fan as his tro­phy----!

New York was, of course, at this sea­son of the year, a pageant of sparkling crowds, and of bril­liant win­dow dis­plays, of new pro­duc­tions at the the­aters. Peo­ple were com­ing back to town. Even the fash­ion­able folk were run­ning down to taste the elixir of the ear­ly days in the metropo­lis.

But George found ev­ery­thing flat and stale. He did the things he had al­ways done, hunt­ed up the friends he had al­ways known. He spent week-​ends at var­ious coun­try places, and came al­ways back to town with an undi­min­ished sense of his need of Becky, and his need of re­venge on Randy.

He had heard be­fore he left Vir­ginia that Becky was at Nan­tuck­et. He had found some con­so­la­tion in the fact that she was not at Hunters­field. To have thought of her with Randy in the old gar­den, on Pavil­ion Hill, in the Bird Room, would have been un­bear­able.

He had a feel­ing that, in a sense, Madge's mar­riage was a de­ser­tion. He did not in the least want to mar­ry her, but there were mo­ments when he need­ed her friend­ship very much. He need­ed it now. And she was go­ing to mar­ry Ma­jor Prime, and go out to some God-​for­sak­en place, and get fat and lose her beau­ty. He wished that she would not talk about such things--it made him feel old, and wor­ried about his waist-​line.

Even Os­car was fail­ing him. “When Flo­ra gets well,” the lit­tle man kept telling him, “we are go­ing to do some good with our mon­ey. We have done noth­ing but think of our­selves----”

“Oh, for Heav­en's sake, don't preach,” George ex­plod­ed. It seemed to him that the world had gone mad on the sub­ject of re­forms. Man was no longer mas­ter of his fate. The time would come when the world would be a dry desert, with­out a cock­tail or a high­ball for a thirsty soul, and all be­cause a lot of peo­ple had been feel­ing for some time as Flo­ra and Os­car felt at this mo­ment.

“I shall take Flo­ra up to the Cross­ing in a few days,” Os­car was say­ing; “the doc­tor thinks the sea air will do her good. I wish you would come with us.”

George had no idea of go­ing with Os­car and Flo­ra. He had been ma­rooned long enough with a sick wom­an and her de­pressed spouse. When Flo­ra was bet­ter and she and Os­car got over their mood of piety and re­pen­tance, he would be glad to join them. In the mean­time he searched his mind for some rea­son­able ex­cuse.

“Look here,” he said, “I'll join you lat­er, Os­car. I've promised some friends at Nan­tuck­et that I'll come down for the hunt­ing.”

“I didn't know that you had friends in Nan­tuck­et,” Os­car told him mood­ily.

“The Mered­iths,” George re­mem­bered in the nick of time the name of Becky's grand­fa­ther. Os­car would not know the dif­fer­ence.

Hav­ing com­mit­ted him­self, his spir­its soared. It had, he felt, been an in­spi­ra­tion to put it over on Os­car like that. Sub­con­scious­ly he had known that some day he would fol­low Becky, and when the mo­ment came, he had spo­ken out of his thoughts.

In the two or three days that elapsed be­tween his de­ci­sion and the date that he had set for his de­par­ture, he found him­self en­joy­ing the city--its clear skies, its hur­ry­ing crowds, its col­or and glow, the tin­gle of its rush and hur­ry, its light-​heart­ed ac­cep­tance of the plea­sure of the mo­ment.

He tele­graphed for a room at a ho­tel in Nan­tuck­et. Once there, he was con­fi­dent that he could find Becky. Ev­ery­body would know Ad­mi­ral Mered­ith.

He went by boat from New York to New Bed­ford, and en­joyed the trip. Lat­er on the lit­tle steam­er, _Sankaty_, ply­ing be­tween New Bed­ford and Nan­tuck­et, he was so shin­ing and splen­did that he was much ob­served by the oth­er pas­sen­gers. His Jap ser­vant, trot­ting af­ter him, was per­haps less mar­tial in bear­ing than the ubiq­ui­tous Kemp, but he was none the less an or­na­ment.

Thus George came, at last, to Nan­tuck­et, and to his ho­tel. Hav­ing dined, he asked the way to the Ad­mi­ral's house. He did not of course plan to storm the citadel af­ter dark, but a walk would not hurt him, and he could view from the out­side the cage which held his white dove. For he had come to that, sen­ti­men­tal­ly, that Becky was the white dove that he would shel­ter against his heart.

The clerk at the ho­tel desk, di­rect­ing him, thought that the Ad­mi­ral was not in his house on Main Street. He was apt at this sea­son to spend his time in Sias­con­set.

“'Scon­set? Where's 'Scon­set?”

“Across the is­land.”

“How can I get there?”

“You can mo­tor over. There's a 'bus, or you can get a car.”

So the next morn­ing, George took the 'bus. He saw lit­tle beau­ty in the moor. He thought it low and flat. His heart leaped with the thought that ev­ery mile brought him near­er Becky--his white dove--whom he had--hurt!

He was set down by the 'bus at the post-​of­fice. He asked his way, and was di­rect­ed to a low hud­dle of gray hous­es on a grassy street. “It is the 'Whistling Sal­ly,'” the driv­er of the 'bus had told him.

When George reached “The Whistling Sal­ly,” he felt that there must be some mis­take. Here was no prop­er home for an Ad­mi­ral or an heiress. His eyes were blind to the charms of the wood­en young wom­an with the puffed-​out cheeks, to the beau­ty of sil­ver-​gray shin­gles, of late flow­ers bloom­ing brave­ly in the lit­tle gar­den.

He kept well on the oth­er side of the street. It might per­haps be em­bar­rass­ing if he met Becky while she was with her grand­fa­ther. He want­ed to see her alone. With no one to in­ter­fere, he would be, he was sure, mas­ter of the sit­ua­tion.

He passed the house. The win­dows were open, and the white cur­tains blew out. But there was no one in sight. At the next cor­ner, he ac­cost­ed a tall man in work clothes, with bronzed skin and fair hair.

“Can you tell me,” George asked, “whether Ad­mi­ral Mered­ith lives in that cot­tage--'The Whistling Sal­ly'?”

“Yes. But he isn't there. He's gone to Boston.”

George was con­scious of a sense of shock.

“Boston?”

“Yes. He wasn't very well and he want­ed to see his doc­tor.”

“Has his--grand­daugh­ter gone with him?”

“Miss Becky? Yes.”

“But--the win­dows of the house are open----”

“I open them ev­ery morn­ing. The house­keep­er is in Nan­tuck­et. But they are all com­ing back at the end of the week.”

“Com­ing back?” ea­ger­ly; “the Ad­mi­ral, and Miss Ban­nis­ter?”

“Yes.”

George drew a long breath. He walked back with Tris­tram to the low gray house. “Queer lit­tle place,” he said.

Tris­tram eyed him with easy tol­er­ance. “Of course it seems queer if you aren't used to it----”

“I thought the Ad­mi­ral had mon­ey.”

“Well, he has. But he for­gets it out here----”

“Is there a good ho­tel?”

“Yes. It is usu­al­ly closed by now. But they are keep­ing it open for some guests who are up for the hunt­ing.”

The ho­tel was a pleas­ant ram­bling struc­ture, and over­looked the sea. George en­gaged a room for Sat­ur­day--and said that his man would bring his bags. He would have his lunch and take the af­ter­noon 'bus back to Nan­tuck­et.

As he wait­ed for the din­ing-​room doors to open, a girl wrapped in a yel­low cape crossed the porch and de­scend­ed the steps which led to the beach. She wore a yel­low bathing cap and yel­low shoes. George walked to the top of the bluff and watched her. She threw off the cape, and stood slim and strik­ing for a mo­ment be­fore she dived in­to the sea. She swam splen­did­ly. It was very cold, and George won­dered how she en­dured it. When she came run­ning back up the steps and across the porch, she was wrapped in the cape. She was rather hand­some in a queer dark way. “It was cold,” she said, as she passed George.

He took a step for­ward. “You were brave----”

She stopped and shrugged her shoul­ders. “One gets warm,” she said, “in a mo­ment.”

She left him, and he went in to lunch. He stopped at the desk on the way out. “I have changed my mind. My man will bring my bags to-​mor­row.”

It was still too ear­ly for the 'bus, so George walked back up the bluff, turn­ing at last to­wards the left. Cross­ing a grassy space, there was ahead of him a ridge which marked the edge of the moor. A lit­tle fog was blow­ing in, and mist­ily through the fog he saw a fig­ure which moved as light as smoke above the em­inence. It was a wom­an danc­ing.

As he came near­er, he saw that she wore gray with a yel­low sash. Her yel­low cape lay on the ground. “I am not sure,” George said, as he stopped be­side her, “whether you are a pix­ie or a mer­maid.”

“Look,” she said, smil­ing, “I'll show you what I am----”

She be­gan with a light sway­ing mo­tion, like a leaf stirred by a breeze. Then, whipped in­to ac­tion, she ran be­fore the pur­su­ing el­ements. She cow­ered, and reg­is­tered de­fi­ance. Her loos­ened hair hung heavy about her shoul­ders, then wound it­self about her, as she whirled in a cy­clone of move­ment. Beat­en to the ground, she rose lan­guid­ly, swayed again to that light step and stopped.

Then she came close to George. “You see,” she said, “I am not a pix­ie or a mer­maid. I am the spir­it of the storm.”