Part 13

William did not believe that Mr. Haughton had given any such orders, but he had gotten into trouble not long before by refusing to give a mount to a friend of Haughton’s whom he did not know and who came armed only with verbal authority. He knew that if any harm was done he could hide behind that occurrence.

“I want a double-reined snaffle,” said Angelica. “Emanuel,” she added, “you have the bit I used to ride her with. Bring my own bridle.”

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to hold her, miss,” muttered William; “but it’s as you say. Hurry up with that saddle,” he called to the stable-boy. “We ain’t got no time to lose. They’re callin’ the class now. You’re number two, miss; I’ll get your number for you.”

“You’ll be kilt! You’ll be kilt!” said Caroline, dolefully. “Think what Miss Cushing will say!”

“Caroline,” said Angelica, “you don’t know anything about horses, so you hush.” And then she added under her breath, “If I can only get started before Jim sees me!”

* * * * *

In the Everett box they were waiting for the five-foot-six class to begin. They called it the five-foot-six class because there were four jumps that were five feet six inches high; the others were an even five feet. It was the “sensational event” of the evening. Thus far the show had been dull.

“Those saddle-horses were an ordinary lot,” observed Reggie.

“This isn’t opening very well, either,” said Palfrey. The first horse had started out by refusing. Then he floundered into the jump and fell.

“Let’s not wait,” said Mrs. Everett. But the words were hardly spoken when, with a quick movement, she turned her glasses on the ring. Something unusual was going on at the farther end. A ripple of applause came down the sides of the Garden, and then she saw a black horse, ridden by a girl, come cantering toward the starting-place.

“It’s that child on Hermione! You must stop it, Reggie!” she exclaimed excitedly.

Before any one could move, Angelica had turned the horse toward the first jump. It looked terribly high to Mrs. Everett. It was almost even with the head of the man who was standing on the farther side ready to replace the bars if they should be knocked down.

Tossing her head playfully, the black mare galloped steadily for the wings, took off in her stride, and swept over the jump in a long curve. She landed noiselessly on the tan-bark, and was on again. Around the great ring went the horse and the girl, steadily, not too fast, and taking each jump without a mistake. The great crowd remained breathless and expectant. Horse and rider finished in front of the Everett box, and pulled up to a trot, the mare breathing hard with excitement, but well-mannered.

Then a storm of cheers and hand-clapping burst, the like of which was never heard at a New York horse show before.

As the applause died away, Reggie rose and hurried out. “Let’s all go,” said Mrs. Everett.

Before they got through the crowd the judges had awarded the ribbons. There were only three other horses that went over all the jumps, and none of them made a clean score. There was no question about which was first. The judges ran their hands down the mare’s legs in a vain search for lumps. She was short-coupled, with a beautiful shoulder and powerful quarters. She had four crosses of thoroughbred, and showed it.

“She’s a picture mare,” said one of the judges, and he tied the blue rosette to her bridle himself. Then the great crowd cheered and clapped again, and Angelica rode down to the entrance as calmly as if she were in the habit of taking blue ribbons daily. But inside she was not calm.

“I’ve got to cry or something,” she thought.

At the gate some one came out of the crowd and took the mare by the head. Angelica looked down, and there were her brother and Reggie and Mrs. Everett’s party. The Garden began to swim.

“Oh, Jim!” she murmured, “help me down. It’s Lady Washington.” Then she threw her arms around his neck and wept.

* * * * *

They were at supper in the old Waldorf Palm Room before Angelica was quite certain whether actual facts had been taking place or whether she had been dreaming. It seemed rather too extraordinary and too pleasant to be true. Still, she was sure that she was there, because the people stared at her when she came in dressed in her habit, and whispered to each other about her. Furthermore, a party of judges came over and asked Mrs. Everett to present them.

There never before was quite such an evening. It was after twelve, at least, and nobody had suggested that she ought to be in bed. One pleasant thing followed another in quick succession, and there seemed no end to them. She was absorbed in an edible rapture which Mrs. Everett called a “café parfait” when she became aware that Reggie’s friend, Mr. Palfrey, had started to address the party. She only half listened, because she was wondering why every one except Mrs. Everett and herself had denied himself this delightful sweet. Grown-up people had strange tastes.

Mr. Palfrey began by saying that he thought it was time to propose a toast in honor of Miss Stanton, which might also rechristen Reggie’s mare by her first and true name, “Lady Washington.” He said that it was plain to him that the mare had resented a strange name out of Greek mythology, and in future would go kindly, particularly if Reggie never tried to ride her again.

He went on with his remarks, and from time to time the people interrupted with laughter; but it was only a meaningless sound in Angelica’s ears. The words “Reggie’s mare” had come like a blow in the face. She had forgotten about that. Her knees grew weak and a lump swelled in her throat. It was true, of course, but for the time being it had passed out of her mind. And now that Lady Washington had won the five-foot-six class and was so much admired, probably Jim could not afford to buy her back. It was doubtful if Mr. Haughton would sell her at any price.

Presently she was aroused by a remark addressed directly to her.

“I think that’s a good idea,” said Reggie. “Don’t you?”

She nodded; but she did not know what the idea was, and she did not trust her voice to ask.

“Only,” he continued, turning to Palfrey, “it isn’t my mare any more; it’s Miss Stanton’s. Put that in, Palfrey.”

Angelica’s mouth opened in wonderment and her heart stood still. She looked about the table blankly.

“It’s so,” said Reggie; “she’s yours.”

“But I can’t take her,” she said falteringly. “She’s too valuable. Can I, Jim?”

“But Jim’s bought her,” said Reggie, hurriedly.

Angelica’s eyes settled on her brother’s face; he said nothing, but began to smile; Reggie was kicking him under the table.

“Yes,” said Reggie; “when I saw you ride Lady Washington, that settled it with me. I’m too proud to stand being beaten by a girl; so I made Jim buy her back and promise to give her to you.”

“Do you mean it?” said Angelica. “Is Lady Washington really mine?”

“Yes,” he said.

She dropped her hands in her lap and sighed wearily. “It doesn’t seem possible,” she murmured. She paused and seemed to be running over the situation in her mind. Presently she spoke as if unaware that the others were listening. “I knew it would happen, though,” she said. “I knew it. I reckon I prayed enough.” She smiled as a great thrill of happiness ran through her, and glancing up, saw that all the rest were smiling, too.

“I’m so happy,” she said apologetically. Then she bethought herself, and furtively reached down and tapped the frame of her chair with her knuckles.

“Well, here’s the toast,” said Mr. Palfrey, rising. “To the lady and Lady Washington.” And they all rose and drank it standing.

MY HUSBAND’S BOOK[7] By James Matthew Barrie

Footnote 7:

From _Two of Them_. Copyright, 1893, by the United States Book Co.

LONG before I married George I knew that he was dreadfully ambitious. We were not yet engaged when he took me into his confidence about his forthcoming great book, which was to take the form of an inquiry into the Metaphysics of Ethics. “I have not begun it yet,” he always said, “but I shall be at it every night once the winter sets in.” In the daytime George is only a clerk, though a much-valued one, so that he has to give the best hours of his life to a ledger.

“If you only had more time at your disposal,” I used to say, when he told me of the book that was to make his name.

“I don’t complain,” he said, heartily, like the true hero he always is, except when he has to take medicine. “Indeed, you will find that the great books have nearly always been written by busy men. I am firmly of opinion that if a man has original stuff in him it will come out.”

He glowed with enthusiasm while he spoke in this inspiriting strain, and some of his ardor passed into me. When we met we talked of nothing but his future; at least he talked while I listened with clasped hands. It was thus that we became engaged. George was no ordinary lover. He did not waste his time telling me that I was beautiful, or saying “Beloved!” at short intervals. No, when we were alone he gave me his hand to hold, and spoke fervently of the Metaphysics of Ethics.

Our engagement was not of a very long duration, for George coaxed me into marriage thus—“I cannot settle down to my book,” he said, “until we are married.”

His heart was so set on that book that I yielded. We wandered all over London together buying the furniture. There was a settee that I particularly wanted, but George, with his usual thoughtfulness, said:

“Let us rather buy a study table. It will help me at my work, and once the book is out we shall be able to afford half a dozen settees.”

Another time he went alone to buy some pictures for the drawing-room.

“I got a study chair instead,” he told me in the evening. “I knew you would not mind, my darling, for the chair is the very thing for writing a big book in.”

He even gave thought to the ink-bottle.

“In my room,” he said, “I am constantly discovering that my ink-bottle is empty, and it puts me out of temper to write with water and soot. I therefore think we ought to buy one of those large ink-stands with two bottles.”

“We shall,” I replied, with the rapture of youth, “and mine will be the pleasant task of seeing that the bottles are kept full.”

“Dearest!” he said, fondly, for this was the sort of remark that touched him most.

“Every evening,” I continued, encouraged by his caressing tones, “you will find your manuscripts lying on the table waiting for you, and a pen with a new nib in it.”

“What a wife you will make!” he exclaimed.

“But you mustn’t write too much,” I said. “You must have fixed hours, and at a certain time, say at ten o’clock, I shall insist on your ceasing to write for the night.”

“That seems a wise arrangement. But sometimes I shall be too entranced in the work, I fancy, to leave it without an effort.”

“Ah,” I said, “I shall come behind you, and snatch the pen from your hand!”

“Every Saturday night,” he said, “I shall read to you what I have written during the week.”

No wonder I loved him.

We were married on a September day, and the honeymoon passed delightfully in talk about the book. Nothing proved to me the depth of George’s affection so much as his not beginning the great work before the honeymoon was over. So I often told him, and he smiled fondly in reply. The more, indeed, I praised him the better pleased he seemed to be. The name for this is sympathy.

Conceive us at home in our dear little house in Clapham.

“Will you begin the book at once?” I asked George the day after we arrived.

“I have been thinking that over,” he said. “I needn’t tell you that there is nothing I should like so much, but, on the whole, it might be better to wait a week.”

“Don’t make the sacrifice for my sake,” I said, anxiously.

“Of course it is for your sake,” he replied.

“But it is such a pity to waste any more time,” I said.

“There is no such hurry,” he answered, rather testily.

I looked at him in surprise.

“What I mean,” he said, “is that I can be thinking the arrangement of the book over.”

We had, of course, a good many callers at this time, and I told most of them about the book. For reasons to be seen by and by I regret this now.

When the week had become a fortnight, I insisted on leaving George alone in the study after dinner. He looked rather gloomy, but I filled the ink-bottles, and put the paper on the desk, and handed him his new pen. He took it, but did not say “thank you.”

An hour afterward I took him a cup of tea. He was still sitting by the fire, but the pen had fallen from his hands.

“You are not sleeping, George?” I asked.

“Sleeping!” he cried, as indignantly as if I had charged him with crime. “No, I’m thinking.”

“You haven’t written any yet?”

“I was just going to begin when you came in. I’ll begin as soon as I’ve drunk this tea.”

“Then I’ll leave you to your work, dear.”

I returned to the study at nine o’clock. He was still in the same attitude.

“I wish you would bring me a cup of tea,” he said.

“I brought you one hours ago.”

“Eh? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh, George! I talked with you about it. Why, here it is on the table, untouched.”

“I declare you never mentioned it to me. I must have been thinking so deeply that I never noticed you. You should have spoken to me.”

“But I did speak, and you answered.”

“My dear, I assure you I did nothing of the sort. This is very vexing, for it has spoiled my evening’s work.”

The next evening George said that he did not feel in the mood for writing, and I suppose I looked disappointed, for he flared up.

“I can’t be eternally writing,” he growled.

“But you haven’t done anything at all yet.”

“That is a rather ungenerous way of expressing it.”

“But you spoke as if the work would be a pleasure.”

“Have I said that it is not a pleasure? If you knew anything of literary history, you would be aware that there are occasions when the most industrious writers cannot pen a line.”

“They must make a beginning some time, though!”

“Well, I shall make a beginning to-morrow.”

Next evening he seemed in no hurry to go into the study.

“I’ll hang the bedroom pictures,” he said.

“No, no, you must get begone to your book.”

“You are in a desperate hurry to see me at that book.”

“You spoke as if you were so anxious to begin it.”

“So I am. Did I say I wasn’t?”

He marched off to the study, banging the drawing-room door. An hour or so afterward I took him his tea. He had left his study door open so that I could see him on the couch before I entered the room. When he heard the rattle of the tea-things he jumped up and strode to the study table, where, when I entered, he pretended to be busy writing.

“How are you getting on, dear?” I asked, with a sinking at the heart.

“Excellently, my love, excellently.”

I looked at him so reproachfully that he blushed.

“I think,” said he, when he had drunk the tea, “that I have done enough for one night. I mustn’t overdo it.”

“Won’t you let me hear what you have written?”

He blushed again.

“Wait till Saturday,” he said.

“Then let me put your papers away,” I said, for I was anxious to see whether he had written anything at all.

“I couldn’t think of it,” he replied, covering the paper with his elbows.

Next morning I counted the clean sheets of paper. They were just as I had put them on the table. So it went on for a fortnight or more, with this difference. He either suspected that I counted the sheets, or thought that I might take it into my head to do so. To allay my suspicions, therefore, he put away what he called his manuscript in a drawer, which he took care to lock. I discovered that one of my own keys opened this drawer, and one day I examined the manuscripts. They consisted of twenty-four pages of paper, without a word written on them. Every evening he added two more clean pages to the contents of the drawer. This discovery made me so scornful that I taxed him with the deceit. At first he tried to brazen it out, but I was merciless, and then he said:

“The fact is that I can’t write by gas-light. I fear I shall have to defer beginning the work until spring.”

“But you used to say that the winter was the best season for writing.”

“I thought so at the time, but I find I was wrong. It will be a great blow to me to give up the work for the present, but there is no help for it.”

When spring came I reminded him that now was his opportunity to begin the book.

“You are eternally talking about that book,” he snarled.

“I haven’t mentioned it for a month.”

“Well, you are always looking at me as if I should be at it.”

“Because you used to speak so enthusiastically about it.”

“I am as enthusiastic as ever, but I can’t be forever writing at the book.”

“We have now been married seven months, and you haven’t written a line yet.”

He banged the doors again, and a week afterward he said that spring was a bad time for writing a book.

“One likes to be out-of-doors,” he said, “in spring, watching the trees become green again. Wait till July, when one is glad to be indoors. Then I’ll give four hours to the work every evening.”

Summer came, and then he said:

“It is too hot to write books. Get me another bottle of iced soda-water. I’ll tackle the book in the autumn.”

We have now been married more than five years, but the book is not begun yet. As a rule, we now shun the subject, but there are times when he still talks hopefully of beginning. I wonder if there are any other husbands like mine.

WAR By JACK LONDON

HE was a young man, not more than twenty-four or five, and he might have sat his horse with the careless grace of his youth had he not been so catlike and tense. His black eyes roved everywhere, catching the movements of twigs and branches where small birds hopped, questing ever onward through the changing vistas of trees and brush, and returning always to the clumps of undergrowth on either side. And as he watched, so did he listen, though he rode on in silence, save for the boom of heavy guns from far to the west. This had been sounding monotonously in his ears for hours, and only its cessation would have aroused his notice. For he had business closer to hand. Across his saddle-bow was balanced a carbine.

So tensely was he strung, that a bunch of quail, exploding into flight from under his horse’s nose, startled him to such an extent that automatically, instantly, he had reined in and fetched the carbine half-way to his shoulder. He grinned sheepishly, recovered himself, and rode on. So tense was he, so bent upon the work he had to do, that the sweat stung his eyes unwiped, and unheeded rolled down his nose and spattered his saddle pommel. The band of his cavalryman’s hat was fresh-stained with sweat. The roan horse under him was likewise wet. It was high noon of a breathless day of heat. Even the birds and squirrels did not dare the sun, but sheltered in shady hiding places among the trees.

Man and horse were littered with leaves and dusted with yellow pollen, for the open was ventured no more than was compulsory. They kept to the brush and trees, and invariably the man halted and peered out before crossing a dry glade or naked stretch of upland pasturage. He worked always to the north, though his way was devious, and it was from the north that he seemed most to apprehend that for which he was looking. He was no coward, but his courage was only that of the average civilized man, and he was looking to live, not die.

Up a small hillside he followed a cowpath through such dense scrub that he was forced to dismount and lead his horse. But when the path swung around to the west, he abandoned it and headed to the north again along the oak-covered top of the ridge.

The ridge ended in a steep descent—so steep that he zigzagged back and forth across the face of the slope, sliding and stumbling among the dead leaves and matted vines and keeping a watchful eye on the horse above that threatened to fall down upon him. The sweat ran from him, and the pollen-dust, settling pungently in mouth and nostrils, increased his thirst. Try as he would, nevertheless the descent was noisy, and frequently he stopped, panting in the dry heat and listening for any warning from beneath.

At the bottom he came out on a flat, so densely forested that he could not make out its extent. Here the character of the woods changed, and he was able to remount. Instead of the twisted hillside oaks, tall straight trees, big-trunked and prosperous, rose from the damp fat soil. Only here and there were thickets, easily avoided, while he encountered winding, park-like glades where the cattle had pastured in the days before war had run them off.

His progress was more rapid now, as he came down into the valley, and at the end of half an hour he halted at an ancient rail fence on the edge of a clearing. He did not like the openness of it, yet his path lay across to the fringe of trees that marked the banks of the stream. It was a mere quarter of a mile across that open, but the thought of venturing out in it was repugnant. A rifle, a score of them, a thousand, might lurk in that fringe by the stream.

Twice he essayed to start, and twice he paused. He was appalled by his own loneliness. The pulse of war that beat from the west suggested the companionship of battling thousands; here was naught but silence, and himself, and possible death-dealing bullets from a myriad ambushes. And yet his task was to find what he feared to find. He must go on, and on, till somewhere, some time, he encountered another man, or other men, from the other side, scouting, as he was scouting, to make report, as he must make report, of having come in touch.

Changing his mind, he skirted inside the woods for a distance, and again peeped forth. This time, in the middle of the clearing, he saw a small farmhouse. There were no signs of life. No smoke curled from the chimney, not a barnyard fowl clucked and strutted. The kitchen door stood open, and he gazed so long and hard into the black aperture that it seemed almost that a farmer’s wife must emerge at any moment.

He licked the pollen and dust from his dry lips, stiffened himself, mind and body, and rode out into the blazing sunshine. Nothing stirred. He went on past the house, and approached the wall of trees and bushes by the river’s bank. One thought persisted maddeningly. It was of the crash into his body of a high-velocity bullet. It made him feel very fragile and defenseless, and he crouched lower in the saddle.