The Trumpeter Swan

CHAPTER XV

THE TRUM­PETER SWAN

I

The Ad­mi­ral's rheuma­tism had tak­en Becky to Boston. “There'll be treat­ments ev­ery morn­ing,” he said, “and we'll in­vite the Copes to vis­it us, and they will look af­ter you while I am away.”

The Copes were de­light­ed. “On­ly it seems like an im­po­si­tion----”

“The house is big enough for an army,” the Ad­mi­ral told them; “that's what we built hous­es for in the old days. To have our friends. Charles, my but­ler, and his wife, Miri­am, who cooks, stay in the house the year round, so it is al­ways open and ready.”

“And you and I shall see Boston to­geth­er,” Archibald told Becky, tri­umphant­ly. “I won­der if you have ev­er seen Boston as I shall show it to you.”

“Well, I've been to all the his­toric places.”

“Bunker Hill and the em­bat­tled farm­ers, of course,” said Archibald; “but have you seen them since the war?”

“No. Are they dif­fer­ent?”

“They aren't, but you are. All of us are.”

Louise was not quite sure that her broth­er ought to leave the is­land. “You are down here for the air, Arch, and the qui­et.”

He was im­pa­tient. “Do you think I am go­ing to miss this?”

She frowned and shook her head. “I don't want you to miss it. But it will be go­ing against the doc­tor's or­ders.”

“Oh, hang the doc­tor, Louise. Be­ing in Boston with Becky will be like--wine----”

But she was not sat­is­fied. “You al­ways throw your­self in­to things so--des­per­ate­ly----”

“Well, when I lose my en­thu­si­asm I want to--die.”

“No, you don't, Arch. Don't say things like that.” Her voice was sharp.

He pat­ted her hand. “I won't. But don't curb me too much, old girl. Let me play--while I can----”

They ar­rived in Boston to find a city un­der mar­tial law, a city whose streets were pa­trolled by kha­ki-​clad fig­ures with guns, whose traf­fic was reg­ulat­ed by sol­dier­ly semaphores, who linked in­tel­li­gence with mil­itary train­ing, and pic­turesque­ness with both.

For a short sea­son Boston had been in the hands of the mob. All of her tra­di­tions of law and or­der had not saved her. It had been her pun­ish­ment per­haps for leav­ing law and or­der in the hands of those who cared noth­ing for them. Peo­ple with con­sciences had pre­ferred to keep out of pol­itics. So for a time dem­agogues had got­ten the ear of the peo­ple, and chaos had re­sult­ed un­til a qui­et gov­er­nor had proved him­self as firm as steel, and sol­diers had re­placed the po­lice­men who had for a mo­ment fol­lowed false gods.

“It all proves what I brought you here to see,” Cope told Becky ea­ger­ly.

Cof­fee was be­ing served in the li­brary of the Mered­ith man­sion on Bea­con Street. The Ad­mi­ral's li­brary was as rud­dy and twin­kling as the lit­tle man him­self. He had fur­nished it to suit his own taste. A great dav­en­port of puffy red vel­vet was set square­ly in front of a fire­place with shin­ing brass­es. The couch was bal­anced by a heavy gilt chair al­so in puffy red. The man­tel was in white mar­ble, and over the man­tel was an oil por­trait of the Ad­mi­ral's wife paint­ed in '76. She wore red vel­vet with a train, and with the pearls which had come down to Becky. The room had been keyed up to her por­trait, and had then been toned down with cer­tain heavy pieces of ebony, a cab­inet of black lac­quer, the dark books which lined the wall to the ceil­ing. The room was dis­tinct­ly nine­teenth-​cen­tu­ry. If it lacked the eigh­teenth-​cen­tu­ry exquisite­ness of the house at Nan­tuck­et, with its re­minder of aus­tere Quak­er prej­udices, it was none the less ap­pro­pri­ate as a glow­ing back­ground for the gay old Ad­mi­ral.

Becky and Cope sat on the red dav­en­port. It was so wide that Becky was al­most lost in a cor­ner of it. The old but­ler, Charles, served the cof­fee. The cof­fee ser­vice was of re­poussé sil­ver. The Ad­mi­ral would have no oth­er. It had been giv­en him by a body of sea­men when he had re­tired from ac­tive du­ty.

“It all proves what I brought you here to see,” Archibald em­pha­sized, “how the gods of yes­ter­day are go­ing to bal­ance the gods of to-​day.”

The Ad­mi­ral chuck­led. “There aren't any gods of to-​day.”

“The gods of to-​day are our young men,” Cope flung out, glow­ing­ly; “the war has left them with their dreams, and they have got to find a way to make their dreams come true. And that's where the old gods will help. Those fine old men who dreamed, backed their dreams with deeds. Then for a time we were so busy mak­ing mon­ey that we for­got their dreams. And when for­eign­ers came crowd­ing to our shores, we didn't care whether they were good Amer­icans or not. All we cared was to have them work in our mills and fac­to­ries and in our kitchens, and let us alone in our pride of an­ces­try and pomp of cir­cum­stance. We for­got to show them Bunker Hill and to tell them about the old North Church and Paul Re­vere and the shot heard 'round the world, and what lib­er­ty meant and democ­ra­cy, and now we've got to show them. I am go­ing to take you around to-​mor­row, Becky, and pre­tend you are Ol­ga from Pet­ro­grad, and that you are see­ing Amer­ica for the first time.”

Archibald Cope was kin­dled by fires which gave col­or to his pale cheeks. “Will you be--Ol­ga from Pet­ro­grad?”

“I'd love it.”

But the next morn­ing it rained. “And you can't, of course, be Ol­ga of Pet­ro­grad in the rain. Bunker Hill must have the sun on it, and the waves of the har­bor must be sparkling when I tell you about the tea.”

They de­cid­ed, there­fore, to read aloud “The Au­to­crat of the Break­fast Ta­ble.”

“Then if it stops rain­ing,” said Archibald, “we'll step straight out from its pages in­to the Boston that I want to show you.”

He read well. Louise sat at a lit­tle ta­ble sewing a pat­tern of beads on a green bag. Becky had some rose-​col­ored knit­ting. The Ad­mi­ral was in his big chair by the fire with his hands fold­ed across his waist­coat and his eyes shut. The col­or­ful work of the two wom­en, the light of the fire, the glow of the lit­tle lamp at Cope's el­bow, the warmth of the red fur­ni­ture saved the room from drea­ri­ness in spite of the rain out­side.

“'It was on the Com­mon,'” read Cope, "'that we were walk­ing. The mall, or boule­vard of our Com­mon, you know, has var­ious branch­es lead­ing from it in dif­fer­ent di­rec­tions. One of these runs down from op­po­site Joy Street south­ward across the whole length of the Com­mon to Boyl­ston Street. We called it the long path, and were fond of it.

“'I felt very weak in­deed (though of a tol­er­ably ro­bust habit) as we came op­po­site the head of this path on that morn­ing. I think I tried to speak twice with­out mak­ing my­self dis­tinct­ly au­di­ble. At last I got out the ques­tion, ”Will you take the long path with me?“ ”Cer­tain­ly,“ said the schoolmistress, ”with much plea­sure.“ ”Think,“ I said, ”be­fore you an­swer: if you take the long path with me now, I shall in­ter­pret it that we are to part no more!" The schoolmistress stepped back with a sud­den move­ment, as if an ar­row had struck her.

“'One of the long gran­ite blocks used as seats was hard by--the one you may still see close by the Gingko-​tree. ”Pray sit down,“ I said. ”No, no,“ she an­swered, soft­ly, ”I will walk the _long path_ with you!"

“'--The old gen­tle­man who sits op­po­site met us walk­ing arm in arm about the mid­dle of the long path, and said, very charm­ing­ly,--”Good-​morn­ing, my dears!“'”

The read­ing stopped at lun­cheon time, and it was still rain­ing. On the ta­ble were let­ters for Becky for­ward­ed from Sias­con­set. An in­ter­est­ing ac­count from Aunt Clau­dia of the wed­ding of Ma­jor Prime and Madge MacVeigh.

"They were mar­ried in the old or­chard at the Flip­pins', and it was beau­ti­ful. The bride wore sim­ple clothes like the rest of us. It was cool and we kept on our wraps, and she was in white linen with a loose lit­tle coat of mauve wool, and a hat to match. The on­ly bride-​y thing about her was a great bunch of lilacs that the Ma­jor or­dered from a Fifth Av­enue florist. They are to stay in New York for a day or two, and then vis­it the Wa­ter­mans on the North Shore. Af­ter that they will go at once to the West, where they are to live on the Ma­jor's ranch. He has been re­lieved from du­ty at Wash­ing­ton, and will have all of his time to give to his own af­fairs.

“There has been an epi­dem­ic of wed­dings. Flip­pins' Daisy wait­ed just long enough to help Mrs. Flip­pin get Miss MacVeigh mar­ried; then she and young John had an im­pos­ing cer­emo­ny in their church, with Daisy in a train and white veil, and four brides­maids, and Mandy and Calvin in front seats, and Calvin giv­ing the bride away. I think the elab­orate­ness of it all re­al­ly rec­on­ciled Mandy to her daugh­ter-​in-​law.”

There was al­so, from Randy, a long en­ve­lope en­clos­ing a thick manuscript and very short note.

“I want you to read this, Becky. It be­longs in a way to you. I don't know what I think about it. Some­times it seems as if I had done a rather big thing, and as if it had been done with­out me at all. I won­der if you un­der­stand what I mean--as if I had held the pen, and it had--come---- I have sent it to the ed­itor of one of the big mag­azines. Per­haps he will send it back, and it may not seem as good to me as it does at this mo­ment. Let me know what you think.”

Becky, fin­ish­ing the let­ter, felt a bit for­lorn. Randy, as a rule, wrote at length about her­self and her af­fairs. But, of course, he had oth­er things now to think of. She must not ex­pect too much.

There was no time, how­ev­er, in which to read the manuscript, for Cope was say­ing, wist­ful­ly, “Do you think you'd mind a walk in the rain?”

“No.” She gath­ered up her let­ters.

“Then we'll walk across the Com­mon.”

They shared one um­brel­la. And they played that it was over fifty years ago when the Au­to­crat had walked with the young Schoolmistress. They even walked arm in arm un­der the um­brel­la. They took the long path to Boyl­ston Street. And Cope said, “Will you take the long path with me?”

And Becky said, “Cer­tain­ly.”

And they both laughed. But there was no laugh­ter in Cope's heart.

“Becky,” he said, “I wish that you and I had lived a cen­tu­ry ago in Louis­berg Square.”

“If we had lived then, we shouldn't be liv­ing now.”

“But we should have had our--hap­pi­ness----”

“And I should have worn love­ly flow­ing silk skirts. Not short things like this, and lit­tle bon­nets with flow­ers in­side, and vel­vet man­tles----”

“And you would have walked on my arm to church. And we would have owned one of those old big hous­es--and your smile would have greet­ed me across the can­dles ev­ery day at din­ner----” He was mak­ing it rather per­son­al, but she hu­mored his fan­cy.

“And you would have worn a blue coat, and a bunch of big seals, and a fur­ry high hat----”

“You are think­ing all the time about what we would wear,” he com­plained; “you haven't any sense of ro­mance, Becky----”

“Well, of course, it is all make-​be­lieve.”

“Yes, it is all--make-​be­lieve,” he said, and walked in si­lence af­ter that.

The wind blew cold and they stopped in a pas­try shop on Boyl­ston Street and had a cup of tea.

Becky ate lit­tle cream cakes with flut­ed crusts, and drank Or­ange Pekoe.

“I am glad you don't wear flow­ing silks and vel­vet man­tles,” said Archibald, sud­den­ly; “I shall al­ways re­mem­ber you like this, Becky, in your rough brown coat and your close lit­tle hat, and that your hand was on my arm when we walked across the Com­mon. Do you like me as a play­mate, Becky?”

“Yes.”

“Do you--love me--as a play­mate?” He leaned for­ward.

“Please--don't.”

“I beg your--par­don----” he flushed. “I am not go­ing to say such things to you, Becky, and spoil things for both of us--I know you don't want to hear them----”

“Make-​be­lieve is much nicer,” she re­mind­ed him steadi­ly.

“But I am not a make-​be­lieve friend, am I? Our friend­ship--that at least is--re­al?”

Her clear eyes met his. “Yes. We shall al­ways be friends--for­ev­er----”

“How long is for­ev­er, Becky?”

She could not an­swer that. But she was sure that friend­ship was like love and lived be­yond the grave. They were very se­ri­ous about it, these two young peo­ple drink­ing tea.

II

It was when the four of them were gath­ered to­geth­er that night in the li­brary that Becky asked Archibald Cope to read “The Trum­peter Swan.”

“Randy wrote it,” she said, “and he sent the manuscript to me this morn­ing.”

The Ad­mi­ral was at once in­ter­est­ed. “He got the name from the swan in the Judge's Bird Room?”

“Yes.”

“Has he ev­er writ­ten any­thing be­fore?” Louise asked.

“Lots of lit­tle things. Love­ly things----”

“Have they been pub­lished?”

“I don't think he has tried.”

Becky had the manuscript in her work-​bag. She brought it out and hand­ed it to Archibald. “You are sure you aren't too tired?”

Louise glanced up from her bead­ed bag. “You've had a hard day, Arch. You mustn't do too much.”

“I won't, Louise,” im­pa­tient­ly.

She went back to her work. “It will be on your own head if you don't sleep to-​night, not on mine.”

“The Trum­peter Swan” was a sto­ry of many pages. Randy had con­fined him­self to no con­ven­tion­al lim­its. He had a sto­ry to tell, and he did not bring it to an end un­til the end came nat­ural­ly. In it he had asked all of the ques­tions which had torn his soul. What of the men who had fought? What of their fu­tures? What of their high courage? Their high vi­sion? Was it all now to be wast­ed? All of that aroused emo­tion? All of that dis­ci­plined en­deav­or? Would they still “car­ry on” in the spir­it of that cru­sade, or would they sink back, and for­get?

His hero was a sim­ple lad. He had fought for his coun­try. He had found when he came back that oth­er men had made mon­ey while he fought for them. He loved a girl. And in his ab­sence she had loved some­one else. For a time he was over­thrown.

Yet he had been one of a glo­ri­ous com­pa­ny. One of that great flock which had winged its ex­alt­ed flight to France. Through­out the sto­ry Randy wove the theme of the big white bird in the glass case. His hero felt him­self like­wise on the shelf, shut-​in, stuffed, dead--his trum­pet silent.

“Am I, too, in a glass case?” he asked him­self; “will my trum­pet nev­er sound again?”

The first part of the sto­ry end­ed there. “Jove,” Cope said, as he looked up, “that boy can write----”

Louise had stopped work­ing. “It is rather--tremen­dous, don't you think?”

Archibald nod­ded. “In a qui­et way it thrills. He hasn't used a word too much. But he car­ries one with him to a sort of--up­per sky----”

Becky, flush­ing and pal­ing with the thought of such praise as this for Randy, said, “I al­ways thought he could do it.”

But even she had not known that Randy could do what he did in the sec­ond part of the sto­ry.

For in it Randy an­swered his own ques­tions. There was no lim­it to a man's pow­ers, no lim­its to his pa­tri­otism, if on­ly he be­lieved in him­self. He must strive, of course, to achieve. But striv­ing made him strong. His task might be sim­ple, but its very sim­plic­ity de­mand­ed that he put his best in­to it. He must not mea­sure him­self by the rule of lit­tle men. If oth­er men had made mon­ey while he fought, then let them be weighed down by their bags of gold. He would not for one mo­ment set against their greed those sa­cred months of self-​sac­ri­fice.

And as for the wom­an he loved. If his love meant any­thing it must burn with a pure flame. What he might have been for her, he would be be­cause of her. He would not be less a man be­cause he had loved her.

And so the boy came in the end of the sto­ry to the knowl­edge that it was the brave souls who sound­ed their trum­pets---- One did not strive for hap­pi­ness. One strove for--vic­to­ry. One strove, at least, for one clear note of courage, amid the clam­or of the world.

Louise, lis­ten­ing, for­got her beads. The Ad­mi­ral blew his nose and wiped his eyes. Becky felt her­self en­gulfed by a wave of surg­ing mem­ories.

“That's cork­ing stuff, do you know it?” Archibald was ask­ing.

Louise asked, “How old is he?”

“Twen­ty-​three.”

“He is young to have learned all that----”

“All what, Louise?” Archibald asked.

“Re­nun­ci­ation,” said Louise, slow­ly, “that's what it is in the fi­nal anal­ysis,” she went back to her beads and her green bag.

“Randy ought to do great things,” said Becky; “the men of his fam­ily have all done great things, haven't they, Grand­fa­ther?”

“Ran­dolph blood is Ran­dolph blood,” said the Ad­mi­ral; “fine old South­ern­ers; proud old stock.”

“If I could write like that,” said Archibald, and stopped and looked in­to the fire.

Louise rose and came and stood back of him. “You can paint,” she said, “why should you want to write?”

“I can't paint,” he reached up and caught her hand in his; “you think I can, but I can't. And I am not won­der­ful---- Yet here I must sit and lis­ten while you and Becky sing young Paine's prais­es.”

He flung out his com­plaint with his air of not be­ing in earnest.

The Ad­mi­ral got up stiffly. “I've a let­ter to write be­fore I go to bed. Don't let me hur­ry the rest of you.”

“Please take Louise with you,” Archibald begged; “I want to talk to Becky.”

His sis­ter rum­pled his hair. “So you want to get rid of me. Becky, he is go­ing to ask ques­tions about that boy who wrote the sto­ry.”

“Are you?” Becky de­mand­ed.

“Louise is a mind read­er. That's why I want her out of the way----”

“You can stay un­til the Ad­mi­ral fin­ish­es his let­ter.” Louise bent and kissed him, picked up her bead­ed bag, and left them to­geth­er.

When she reached the thresh­old, she stopped and looked back. Archibald had piled up two red cush­ions and was sit­ting at Becky's feet.

“Tell me about him.”

“Randy?”

“Yes. He's in love with you, of course.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He sent you the sto­ry.”

“Well, he is,” she ad­mit­ted, “but I am not sure that we ought to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“Is it quite fair, to him?”

“Then we'll talk about his sto­ry. It gripped me---- Oh, let's have it out, Becky. He loves you and you don't love him. Why don't you?”

“I can't--tell you----”

There was si­lence for a mo­ment, then Archibald Cope said gen­tly, “Look here, girl dear, you aren't hap­py. Don't I know it? There's some­thing that's aw­ful­ly on your mind and heart. Can't you think of me as a sort of--fa­ther con­fes­sor--and let me--help----?”

She clasped her hands tense­ly on her knees; the knuck­les showed white. “No­body can help.”

“Is it as bad as that?”

“Yes.” She looked away from him. “There is some­body else--not Randy. Some­body that I shouldn't think about. But I--do----”

She was dry-​eyed. But he felt that here was some­thing too deep for tears.

“Does Randy know?”

“Yes. I told him. We have al­ways talked about things----”

“I see,” he sat star­ing in­to the fire, “and of course it is Randy that you ought to mar­ry----”

“I don't want to mar­ry any­one. I shall nev­er mar­ry----”

“Tut-​tut, my dear.” He laid his hand over hers. “Do you know what I was think­ing, Becky, to-​day, as we walked the Boston streets? I was think­ing of why those big hous­es were built, rows up­on rows of them, and of the peo­ple who lived in them. Those old hous­es speak of homes, Becky, of peo­ple who want­ed house­hold gods, and neigh­bor­ly gath­er­ings, and com­mu­ni­ty in­ter­ests. They weren't the kind of peo­ple who ran around Eu­rope with a paint box, as I have been do­ing. They had home-​keep­ing hearts and they built for the fu­ture.”

He was very much in earnest. She had, in­deed, nev­er seen him so much in earnest.

“It is all very well,” he went on, “to talk of a tent in a desert or a hut on a moun­tain top, but when we walked across the Com­mon this morn­ing, it seemed to me that if I could re­al­ly have lived the game we played--that life could have held noth­ing bet­ter in the world for me than that, my dear.”

She tried to with­draw her hand, but he held it. “Let me speak to-​night, Becky--and then for­ev­er, we'll for­get it. I love you--very much. You don't love me, and I should thank the stars for that, al­though I am not sure that I do. I am not a man to deal in--fu­tures. I'll tell you why some day.” He drew a long breath and went on in a lighter tone: “But you, Becky--you've got to find a man whose face you will want to see at the oth­er end of the ta­ble--for life. It sounds like a pris­on­er's sen­tence, doesn't it?”

But he couldn't car­ry it off like that, and present­ly he hid his face against her hands. “Oh, Becky, Becky,” she heard him whis­per.

Then there was the Ad­mi­ral's step in the hall and Archibald was on his feet, star­ing in the fire when the lit­tle man came in.

“Any let­ters for Charles to mail?”

“No, Grand­fa­ther.”

The Ad­mi­ral limped away. Becky stood up. Cope turned from the fire.

“If it doesn't rain to-​mor­row, I'll show Amer­ica to Ol­ga of Pet­ro­grad.”

They smiled at each oth­er, and Becky held out her hand. He bent and kissed it. “I shall sleep well to-​night be­cause of--to-​mor­row.”

III

But when to-​mor­row came there was a tele­phone mes­sage for Becky that Ma­jor Prime and his wife were in town. They had mes­sages for her from Hunters­field, and from King's Crest.

“And so our day is spoiled,” said Archibald.

“We can come again,” said the Ad­mi­ral, “but we must be get­ting back to Sias­con­set to-​mor­row. I wrote to Tris­tram. We'll have Prime and his wife here for din­ner to-​night, and drive them out some­where this af­ter­noon. I re­mem­ber Mark Prime well. I played golf with him one sea­son at Del Monte. How did you hap­pen to know him, Becky?”

Becky told of the Ma­jor's so­journ to King's Crest.

The Copes made sep­arate plans for the af­ter­noon. “If I can't have you to my­self, Becky,” Cope com­plained, “I won't have you at all----”

Madge, sit­ting lat­er next to Becky in the Ad­mi­ral's big car, was love­ly in a great cape of pale wis­te­ria, with a tur­ban of the same col­or set low on her burnt-​gold hair.

“I have brought you won­der­ful news of Randy Paine,” she said to Becky. “He has sold his sto­ry, 'The Trum­peter Swan.' To one of the big mag­azines. And they have asked for more. He is by way of be­ing rather--fa­mous. He came on to New York the day af­ter we ar­rived. They had tele­graphed for him. We want­ed him to come up here with us, but he wouldn't.”

“Why wouldn't he?”

“He had some en­gage­ments, and af­ter that----”

“He will nev­er write an­oth­er sto­ry like 'The Trum­peter Swan,'” said Becky.

“Why not?”

“It--it doesn't seem as if he could---- It is--won­der­ful, Mrs. Prime----”

“Well, Randy--is won­der­ful,” said Madge.

A si­lence fell be­tween them, and when Madge spoke again it was of the Wa­ter­mans. “We go to the Cross­ing to-​mor­row. I must see Flo­ra be­fore I go West.”

The blood ran up in­to Becky's heart. She won­dered if George Dal­ton was with the Wa­ter­mans. But she did not dare ask.

So she asked about Cal­ifor­nia in­stead. “You will live out there?”

“Yes, on a ranch. There will be chick­ens and cows and hogs. It sounds un­ro­man­tic, doesn't it? But it is re­al­ly fright­ful­ly in­ter­est­ing. It is what I have al­ways dreamed about. Mark says this is to be my--rein­car­na­tion.”

She laughed a lit­tle as she ex­plained what she meant. “And when I was in New York, I bought the duck­iest lilac linens and ging­hams, and white aprons, frilly ones. Mark says I shall look like a dairy maid in 'Robin Hood.'”

The Ma­jor, who was in front of them with the Ad­mi­ral, turned and spoke.

“Tell her about Kemp.”

“Oh, he is go­ing with us. It de­vel­ops that there is a girl in Scot­land who is wait­ing for him. And he is go­ing to send for her--and they are to have a cot­tage on the ranch, and come in­to the house to help us, and there is an old Chi­nese cook that Mark has had for years.”

Becky spoke sharply. “You don't mean Mr.--Dal­ton's Kemp?”

“Yes. He came to Mark. Didn't you know?”

Becky had not known.

“Why did he leave Mr.--Dal­ton?”

“He and Georgie had a falling out about an omelette. I fan­cy it was a sort of com­ic opera cli­max. So Mark got a trea­sure and Georgie-​Porgie lost one----”

“Georgie-​Porgie?”

“Oh, I al­ways call him that, and he hates it,” Madge laughed at the mem­ory.

“You did it to--tease him?” slow­ly.

“I did it be­cause it was--true. You know the old nurs­ery rhyme? Well, George is like that. There were al­ways so many girls to be--kissed, and it was so easy to--run away----”

She said it light­ly, with shrugged shoul­ders, but she did not look at Becky.

And that night when she was dress­ing for din­ner, Madge said to her hus­band, “It sound­ed--cat­ty--Mark. But I had to do it. There's that dar­ling boy down there eat­ing his heart out. And she is nurs­ing a dream----”

The Ma­jor was stand­ing by his wife's door, and she was in front of her mir­ror. It re­flect­ed her gold bro­cade, her amethysts linked with di­amonds in a long chain that end­ed in a jew­eled lock­et. Her jew­el case was open and she brought out the pen­dant that George had sent her and held it against her throat. “It match­es the oth­ers,” she said.

He arched his eye­brows in in­quiry.

“I wouldn't wear it,” she said with a sud­den quick force, “if there was not an­oth­er jew­el in the world. I wish he hadn't sent it. Oh, Mark, I wish I hadn't known him be­fore I found--you,” she came up to him swift­ly; “such men as you,” she said, “if wom­en could on­ly meet them--_first_----”

His arm went around her. “It is enough that we--met----”

Becky was al­so at her mir­ror at that mo­ment. She had dressed care­ful­ly in sil­ver and white with her pearls and sil­ver slip­pers. Louise came in and looked at her. “I haven't any grand and gor­geous things, you know. And I fan­cy your Mrs. Prime will be rather gor­geous.”

“It suits her,” said Becky, “but af­ter this she is go­ing to be dif­fer­ent.” She told Louise about the ranch and the linen frocks and the frilled aprons. “She is go­ing to make her­self over. I won­der if it will be a suc­cess.”

“It doesn't fit in with my the­ories,” said Louise. “I think it is much bet­ter if peo­ple mar­ry each oth­er ready-​made.”

Becky turned from her mir­ror. “Louise,” she said, “does any­thing ev­er fit in with a wom­an's the­ories when she falls in love?”

“One shouldn't fall in love,” Louise said, serene­ly, “they should walk square­ly in­to it. That's what I shall do, when I get ready to mar­ry---- But I shall love Archibald as long as the good Lord will let me----”

She was try­ing to say it light­ly, but a quiver of her voice be­trayed her.

“Louise,” Becky said, “what's the mat­ter with Archibald? Is any­thing re­al­ly the mat­ter?”

Louise be­gan to cry. “Archie saw the doc­tor to-​day, and he won't promise any­thing--I made Arch tell me----”

“Oh, Louise.” Becky's lips were white.

“Of course if he takes good care of him­self, it may not be for years. You mustn't let him know that I told you, Becky. But I had to tell some­body. I've kept it all bot­tled up as if I were a stone im­age. And I'm not a stone im­age, and he's all I have.”

She dabbed her eyes with a fu­tile hand­ker­chief. The tears dripped. “I must stop,” she kept say­ing, “I shall look like a fright for din­ner----”

But at din­ner she showed no signs of her ag­ita­tion. She had used pow­der and rouge with deft touch­es. She had fol­lowed Becky's ex­am­ple and wore white, a crisp or­gandie, with a high blue sash. With her bobbed hair and pink cheeks she was not un­like a paint­ed doll. She car­ried a lit­tle blue fan with lac­quered sticks, and she tapped the ta­ble as she talked to Ma­jor Prime. The tap­ping was the on­ly sign of her in­ner ag­ita­tion.

The Ad­mi­ral's ta­ble that night seemed to Becky a cir­cle of sin­is­ter mean­ing. There was Archibald, con­demned to die--while youth still beat in his veins---- There was Louise, who must go on with­out him. There was the Ad­mi­ral--the last of a van­ished com­pa­ny; there was the Ma­jor, whose life for four years had held--hor­rors. There was Madge, ra­di­ant to-​night in the love of her hus­band, as she had per­haps once been ra­di­ant for Dal­ton.

_Georgie-​Porgie!_

It was a hor­rid name. “_There were al­ways so many girls to be kissed--and it was so easy to run away_----”

She had al­ways hat­ed the nurs­ery rhyme. But now it seemed to sing it­self in her brain.

_“Georgie-​Porgie, Pud­ding and pie, Kissed the girls, And made them cry----”_

Cope was at Becky's right. “Aren't you go­ing to talk to me? You haven't said a word since the soup.”

“Well, ev­ery­body else is talk­ing.”

“What do I care for any­body else?”

Becky won­dered how Archibald did it. How he kept that light man­ner for a world which he was not long to know. And there was Louise with rouge and pow­der on her cheeks to cov­er her tears---- That was courage---- She thought sud­den­ly of “The Trum­peter Swan.”

She spoke out of her thoughts. “Randy has sold his sto­ry.”

He want­ed to know all about it, and she re­peat­ed what Madge had said. Yet even as she talked that hate­ful rhyme per­sist­ed,

_“When the girls Came out to play, Georgie-​Porgie Ran away----”_

Af­ter din­ner they went in­to the draw­ing-​room so that Louise could play for them. A great mir­ror which hung at the end of the room re­flect­ed Louise on the pi­ano bench in her ba­by frock. It re­flect­ed Madge, slim and gold, with a huge fan of lilac feath­ers. It re­flect­ed Becky--in a rose-​col­ored damask chair, it re­flect­ed the three men in black. Years ago there had been oth­er men and wom­en--the Ad­mi­ral's wife in red vel­vet and the same pearls that were now on Becky's neck---- She shud­dered.

As they drove home that night, the Ma­jor spoke to his wife of Becky. “The child looks un­hap­py.”

“She will be un­hap­py un­til some day her heart rests in her hus­band, as mine does in you. Shall I spoil you, Mark, if I talk like this?”

When they reached their ho­tel there were let­ters. One was from Flo­ra: “You asked about George. He is not with us. He has gone to Nan­tuck­et to vis­it some friends of his--the Mered­iths. He will be back next week.”

“The Mered­iths?” Madge said. “George doesn't know any--Mered­iths. Mark--he is fol­low­ing Becky.”

“Well, she's safe in Boston.”

“She is go­ing back. On Wednes­day. And he'll be there.” Her eyes were trou­bled.

“Mark,” she said, abrupt­ly, “I won­der if Randy has left New York. Call him up, please, long dis­tance. I want to talk to him.”

“My dar­ling girl, do you know what time it is?”

“Near­ly mid­night. But that's noth­ing in New York. And, any­how, if he is asleep, we will wake him up. I am go­ing to tell him that George is at Sias­con­set.”

“But, my dear, what good will it do?”

“He's got to save Becky. I know Dal­ton's tricks and his man­ners. He can cast a glam­our over any­thing. And Randy's the man for her. Oh, Mark, just think of her mon­ey and his ge­nius----”

“What have mon­ey and ge­nius to do with it?”

“Noth­ing, un­less they love each oth­er. But--she cares---- You should have seen her eyes when I said he had sold his sto­ry. But she doesn't know that she cares, and he's got to make her know.”

“How can he make her know?”

“Let her see him--now. She has nev­er seen him as he was in New York with us, sure of him­self, know­ing that he has found the thing that he can do. He was beau­ti­ful with that ra­di­ant boy-​look. You know he was, Mark, wasn't he?”

“Yes, my dar­ling, yes.”

“And I want him to be hap­py, don't you?”

“Of course, dear heart.”

“Then get him on the 'phone. I'll do the rest.”

IV

Randy, in New York, ac­claimed by a crowd of en­thu­si­asts who had read his sto­ry as a gold nugget picked up from a desert of lit­er­ary medi­ocrity. Randy, not know­ing him­self. Randy, mod­est be­yond be­lief. Randy, in his ho­tel at mid­night, walk­ing the floor with his head held high, and say­ing to him­self, “I've done it.”

It seemed to him that, of course, it could not be true. The young ed­itor who had eyed him through shell-​rimmed glass­es had said, “There's go­ing to be a lot of hard work ahead--to keep up to this----”

Randy, in his room, laughed at the thought of work. What did hard­ness mat­ter? The thing that re­al­ly mat­tered was that he had trea­sure to lay at the feet of Becky.

He sat down at the desk to write to her, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, a hand that shook with ex­cite­ment.

“I am to meet a lot of big fel­lows to-​mor­row--I shall feel like an ug­ly duck­ling among the swans--oh, the _swans_, Becky, did we ev­er think that the Trum­peter in his old glass case----”

The tele­phone rang. Randy, an­swer­ing it, found Madge at the oth­er end. There was an ex­change of ea­ger ques­tion and ea­ger an­swer.

Then Randy hung up the re­ceiv­er, tore up his note to Becky, asked the of­fice about trains, packed his bag, and went swift in a taxi to the sta­tion.

It was not un­til he was safe in his sleep­er, and rack­et­ing through the night, that he re­mem­bered the meet­ing with the lit­er­ary swans and the ed­itor with the shell-​rimmed glass­es. A tele­gram would con­vey his re­grets. He was sor­ry that he could not meet them, but he had on hand a more im­por­tant mat­ter.