Part 7

“Yes,” she repeated, “I must go.”

He raised his head and looked her frankly in the eyes:

“I should like to see you again,” he said.

“Really? Oh, I suppose I shall pass the bridge again before you go.”

“How do you know? Suppose I should go to-morrow?”

“You said you were going fishing to-morrow,—didn’t you?”

“Why no,—I didn’t say so,” he said eagerly; “I would rather talk with you.”

“Why don’t you go fishing?”

“I would rather talk to you,” he repeated.

“What shall we talk about—blockade whisky?”

They both laughed. He had moved up beside her again.

“I want to see you again,” she said, “I think you can see that I do. I could come to the bridge to-morrow. I would rather the people at the hotel did not know. My uncle has forbidden me to speak to anybody except Zeke and the boys. When I was a child I did not feel very lonely; now I have the greatest longing to know people—girls of my own age. I dare not.”

“Have you no girl friend at all?”

“No. I should like to know older women too. At night in bed I often cry and cry—there!—I should not tell you such things—”

“Tell me,” he said soberly.

But she only smiled and shook her head saying; “It is lonely at Yo Espero.”

He looked into her grey eyes; they troubled him.

“I dare not wait any longer,” she said,—“good-bye,—will you come to-morrow?”

“Here? Yes. Shall I come early?”

“Oh, yes.”

“At seven?”

“Yes.”

He offered her his hand but she did not take it.

“Wait,” she said, “I do not know your name,—no,—don’t tell me now,—let me think a little of what I have done. If I come to-morrow—then you may tell me.”

He watched her hurry away up the woodland path that leads to Yo Espero. When she was gone he stood still, idly tearing dried splinters from the bridge railing.

II.

The piazzas of the Diamond Spring Hotel were empty; the guests came trooping through the great square hall and into the big dining-room to be fed.

Young Edgeworth arrived late and silently took his seat, bowing civilly to his neighbours.

There were fifteen people at his table, including the Reverend Dr. Beezeley, who presided, flanked by his wife, his progeny, and a bottle of Diamond Spring water. Near to the Reverend Orlando Beezeley sat another minister, a little pink gentleman with bulging eyes. His name was Meeke and he looked it. But he wasn’t.

Now the Reverend Orlando Beezeley and Dr. Samuel Meeke were both of a stripe, differing on one or two obscure questions. One reverend gentleman was a pillar of the “Pure People’s League;” the other wore the badge of the “Charity Band.” And they squabbled.

For their leagues, their bands, and their squabbles, Edgeworth cared nothing. He believed that all people should be allowed to worship God in their own fashion,—even by squabbling if they chose. He was disposed to be courteous to the two ministers and their wives and young. It was difficult, however, partly because they were inquisitive, partly on account of the Reverend Orlando’s personal habits, which were maddening. He put his fingers into everything, including his mouth; they were always sticky, and this, combined with cuffs that came too far over his knuckles, oppressed Edgeworth. The Reverend Orlando’s fingers were obtrusive. When he walked they spread out, perhaps to stem the downward avalanche of cuff. He also twiddled them when he had no other use for them, and Heaven knows he put them to uses for which they were never intended.

All this interfered with Edgeworth’s appetite and he shunned the Reverend Orlando Beezeley. Once, at the table, the minister asked him why he didn’t go to the Sunday services which he, Dr. Beezeley, held in the hotel parlours, and when Edgeworth said it was because he didn’t want to, the Reverend Orlando sniffed offensively. For a week the atmosphere was surcharged with unpleasantness; but one day Dr. Beezeley asked Edgeworth what he did for a living, and Edgeworth pleasantly told him that it was none of his business. The atmosphere at once cleared up and the Reverend Orlando became irksomely affable. This was because he was afraid of Edgeworth and disliked him.

Therefore, when Edgeworth entered the dining-room and slipped quietly into his chair, Dr. Beezeley said: “Hey! been a-fishin?”

“No,” said Edgeworth.

“Where’ve you been then?” urged Mrs. Beezeley, devoured by curiosity. She had contracted this disease in the little Boston suburb where she lived, and she had infected her whole family.

“I have been out,” said Edgeworth pleasantly.

Dr. Samuel Meeke, who had pricked up his ears, relapsed into a dull contemplation of Mrs. Dill again.

But Mrs. Beezeley was not defeated. She turned to the pallid lady beside her, Mrs. Dill, and said in a thin high voice: “Pass the trout to Mr. Edgeworth; he can’t seem to catch any—even off the old foot-bridge.”

Edgeworth was intensely annoyed, for it was plain that some of the Beezeley brood had been spying. He looked at Master Ballington Beezeley who grinned at him impertinently.

His father was busy feeding himself with mashed potato, but he observed his heir’s impudence and was not displeased.

“I seen you,” cried the youthful Beezeley, writhing with the pressure of untold secrets,—“you was mashin’ a country-girl, Mister Edgeworth,—I seen you!”

“Te-he!” tittered Mrs. Dill.

“‘I _saw_ you,’ would perhaps be more correct,” said Edgeworth; “unless perhaps your parents have instructed you to the contrary—”

“Ballington!” cried Mrs. Beezeley, turning red, “how dare you use such grammar?”

Edgeworth surveyed the defeat of the Beezeleys without any particular emotion.

Mrs. Dill attempted to save the day but choked on an olive and was assisted from the room by Dr. Samuel Meeke. Then the Beezeleys made Mrs. Meeke wretched with significant looks and smiles and half-suppressed coughs, until she rose to find out why Mrs. Dill and her husband did not return. Poor little woman! her bosom friend, Mrs. Beezeley, had long ago quenched for her what little comfort in life she ever knew.

When the Reverend Orlando Beezeley had fed to repletion, he removed the napkin from his chin, cleared his throat, picked his teeth, and finally took himself off to the piazza.

“I can’t stand this table full much longer,” muttered Edgeworth to himself, and he called to the head waiter, a majestic personage of colour, and also a Baptist deacon.

“Deacon,” said he, “give me a place at another table to-night, can you?”

“Sho’ly, Sho’ly, Mistuh Edgewurf,” said the majestic one; “might you prefer to be seated at Mis’ Weldon’s table, Mistuh Edgewurf?”

Edgeworth looked across at Mrs. Weldon and then at her pretty daughter, Claire.

“Go over and ask Mrs. Weldon whether she objects,” he said.

Mrs. Weldon did not object and neither did Claire, so Edgeworth walked over and said some polite things which he forgot a minute afterward. So did Mrs. Weldon. I am not sure about Claire.

When Edgeworth went out on the veranda to smoke his pipe, a young fellow in tweeds and scarlet golf-jacket, who was sitting astride the railing said: “Hello, Jim, it’s all over the hotel that you’re sweet on some country-girl.”

“Tommy,” said Edgeworth, in a low pleasant voice, “go to the devil!”

O’Hara smiled serenely.

“I suppose it’s that Beezeley whelp, eh, Jim?”

“I fancy it is. A fellow can’t brush his hair but it’s reported in Diamond Springs.”

“Oh, there’s truth in it then,” laughed O’Hara.

“That,” said Edgeworth, “is none of your confounded business;” and they strolled off together, arm in arm, smoking placidly.

“These Beezeleys,” said O’Hara, “are blights on the landscape. They ought to be exterminated with Paris-green.”

“Or drowned in tubs,” said Edgeworth.

“Like unpleasant kittens,” added O’Hara.

“Come,” said Jim Edgeworth, “what was that yarn you wanted to spin for me this morning?”

“Yarn? ’Tis no yarn,” said O’Hara; “it’s the truth and it troubles me. Sit down here on the grass till I tell you. Look at the veranda, Jim; it’s like a circus with the band playing.”

“The girls’ frocks are very pretty; I like lots of colour,” said Edgeworth.

“There’s plenty in Claire Weldon’s cheeks,” observed O’Hara, gloomily.

“It’s natural,” said Jim.

“It was before you came. Now she puts more on in your honour;—confound it, man, can’t you see the lass is forever making eyes at you?—and, Jim, it’s death to me!”

Edgeworth stared at him.

“Oh, you’re blinder than the white bat of Drumgilt!” said O’Hara; “you’ve eyes in your head, but they’re only there for ornament. Didn’t you know I am in love with Claire Weldon now?”

“Why no,” said Edgeworth, “are you really, Tommy?”

“Am I really, Tommy? Faith, I thought even the fish in Gay Brook knew it.”

“Well,” laughed Edgeworth, “go in and win, then!”

“Do you mean it?” said Tommy gravely.

“Mean it? My dear fellow, why shouldn’t I?”

O’Hara beamed upon him and grasped his hand.

“There!” he cried, “I knew it! I’ve told her ye didn’t care tuppence for any lass, and if she didn’t take me she’d be doin’ herself but ill service.”

Edgeworth burst into fits of laughter. “Is that the way you woo a girl, Tom O’Hara?”

“There are ways and ways,” said O’Hara doggedly.

“How about Sir Brian?” asked Jim, checking his mirth.

Sir Brian was Tommy’s father. The several thousand miles that separated father and son did not lessen Tommy’s uneasiness concerning his father’s approval.

“I can’t help it,” said Tom; “if he disowns me I’ll go to work, that I will! and Claire knows it.”

“They say,” said Edgeworth, “that the O’Haras always get what they want.”

“They do. My grandfather loved a lass who died, so he blew out his brains and caught her in heaven.”

“Hm!” coughed Edgeworth.

“Do you know to the contrary?” demanded O’Hara.

“No,” said Jim, “I’ll have to wait a bit to verify this story. Have you any tobacco? Thanks, my pipe’s out. Look at the sky, Tom; it’s pretty, isn’t it?”

They sprawled on their backs and kicked up their heels; two bronzed young athletes,—as trim a pair as one might see anywhere betwixt the poles of this planet.

“Hark,” said Edgeworth, “hear Beezeley and Meeke squabbling over their Maker. Do you suppose He hears them? He is so very far away. Hark how they wrangle over their future blessedness. I should think they would be ashamed to have God hear them.”

“Beezeley says he believes in hell, but doesn’t want to go there,” said O’Hara, lazily.

“There’s no hell,” said Edgeworth. He hadn’t lived long enough to know; he was nineteen.

O’Hara raised himself on one elbow and looked at him.

“No hell?” he asked.

“No.”

If he had seen the lines in O’Hara’s young face,—the faint marks about the eyes and mouth, he might have answered differently.

The afternoon sunlight lay warm across the level meadow. The locust-trees were in full bloom, deep laden with heavy, drooping clusters of white blossoms. Every wandering breeze bore the penetrating sweetness of the locusts and the delicate odour of hemlock and pine. Great scarlet trumpet-flowers swayed in the May wind; from the nearer forest came the scent of dogwood and azalea. Over the greensward butterflies fluttered, little white ones, chasing each other among the dandelions, great swallow-tailed butterflies, yellow and black, flopping around the phlox, or pursuing a capricious course along the river bank. There were others too, gay comma-butterflies, delicate violet or blue swallow-tailed butterflies, and now and then a rare shy comrade of theirs, pale sulphur and grey, striped like a zebra, that darted across the flower-beds and flitted away to its dusky haunts among the shrub-oak and holly of the mountain sides. An oriole, gorgeous in orange and black, uttered a sweet call from the lower branches of an oak. A bluebird dropped into the lower grass under the bushes. Then a catbird began to sing and trill and warble until the whole air rippled with melody.

“’Tis a nightingale or I’m in Drumgilt!” said O’Hara, sitting up.

“It’s a male catbird,” said Edgeworth, rising; “come on, Tom!”

O’Hara picked himself up from the grass, scraped out his pipe, ran a grass-stem through it, and looked at the sun.

“We have loafed the whole afternoon away,” he said.

“I was anxious to kill time,” said Edgeworth. He was thinking of the girl at the bridge.

“Kill time! kill time!” said O’Hara impatiently,—“why, man, ’tis time that kills us! I’m going to find Miss Weldon, and I’d be obliged to ye to stay away.”

“Bosh!” said Edgeworth, “you’re worth twenty like me.”

“That I am!” said Tom, “but I’ll be saying good night, lad! And for the love of me, stay away from Claire Weldon. You don’t want my curse?”

“Oh, no,” laughed Edgeworth; “but I’m going to dine at their table. I asked the Deacon to fix it. I can’t stand the holy alliance any longer.”

“All right,” said O’Hara, “when a girl has to see a man eat three times a day, she loses her illusions concerning him.”

“What’s that?” demanded Edgeworth.

But O’Hara swung off across the clover, whistling “Terry Bowen” and buttoning his scarlet golf-jacket with an irritating air of self-satisfaction.

“The mischief take Tom and his girls!” said Edgeworth to himself, but he looked after Tom and smiled, for he thought the world revolved about O’Hara. Still he began to be lonely again, now that O’Hara was gone.

“Why the deuce can’t he spend a half hour now and then with me?” he muttered to himself; “what can he find to talk about all day to that one girl?”

III.

That night after dinner he found himself joining the procession upon the veranda, walking with a pretty girl whom he did not remember meeting, but, from whose conversation, he knew he must have danced attendance on somewhere or other.

In the half light of the mellow Japanese lanterns, he caught glimpses of familiar faces in the throng; Dr. Beezeley, unctuous and sticky-fingered, the faded Mrs. Dill with Dr. Samuel Meeke, poor little Mrs. Meeke, anxiously smiling when she caught the protruding eyes of her husband, Mrs. Weldon, gracious and serene, walking with some tall, heavy-whiskered Southerner, Tommy O’Hara conducting Miss Claire Weldon, with something of the determination that one notices in troopers who convoy treasure-trains. In and out of the lights they passed him, vague impressions of filmy draperies and lantern-lit faces, with now and then a shadowy gesture or a sparkle of eyes in the twilight. Beyond, the dark foliage of sycamore and maple loomed motionless, with never a wind to stir the tender leaves, but the locust-trees, where the grape-like bunches of white blossoms hung, were all hazy with the quivering wings of dusk-moths. Slender sphinx-moths darted and turned and hovered over the phlox, grey wraiths of dead humming-birds, poised above phantom flowers. Below the fountain spray, drifting fine as a veil of mist across the shadowy blossoms of white iris, a hidden tree-frog quavered a sweet-treble, and on every twig-tip gauzy-winged creatures scraped resonant accompaniment.

“Of what are you thinking, Mr. Edgeworth?” asked the girl beside him.

He started slightly; he had quite forgotten her. He had been thinking of the girl at the bridge and the tryst next morning, but he said: “I was listening to the tree-frog. It means rain to-morrow.”

“I am very sorry,” said the girl, “I was going to Painted Mountain on horseback. Shall we sit here a moment?” She shook out her skirts and seated herself, and he found a place on the veranda railing beside her.

“Painted Mountain?” he asked; “that is beyond Yo Espero, isn’t it?”

“Yo Espero is on the southern slope. I heard such an interesting story about Yo Espero to-day; shall I tell you?”

He looked at her sharply, then nodded, saying: “Tell me first what Yo Espero means. It’s Spanish, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,—I suppose so. I believe it means ‘_I hope._’ The village,—there’s only one house you know,—was named Yo Espero by the only inhabitant. They say he took the name from the label on the lid of an old cigar-box that he found among the rocks.”

“Very unromantic and intensely American,” said Edgeworth laughing.

“Ah, but wait,—there’s more to come. The man who lives at Yo Espero has a niece, a beauty they say, and would you believe it, the man, her uncle, named her also Yo Espero!”

“Oh!” said Edgeworth musingly.

“Poor girl,—named from a cigar brand! It is wicked—don’t you think so, Mr. Edgeworth?”

“Yo Espero,” he repeated softly,—“I don’t know,—Yo Espero.”

“Her uncle calls her Io for short when he does not call her Yo Espero. He must be a brute. They say he knows things about the blockade too.”

Edgeworth became interested.

“I have never seen the girl,” she continued, “but Mrs. Weldon has, and she says the girl is simply a raving beauty. Dr. Beezeley tried to call on the uncle but was shown the door without ceremony. They say the man is well educated and from the North, but he won’t allow anybody to enter his house or speak to his niece.”

“Do you know his name?” asked Edgeworth.

“Mrs. Beezeley says it is Clyde. He is some broken-down Northern man of good family who has sunk low enough to mix himself up with the blockade. People say the Revenue Officers are after him and will get him sooner or later. I wonder what the girl will do then?”

“I wonder,” repeated Edgeworth under his breath; “hello! here’s Tommy O’Hara, the pride of Drumgilt!”

“And the Pride has had a fall,” said O’Hara sentimentally;—“did—did you notice if Miss Weldon was passing this way, Jim? Ah, did you see her pass, Miss Marwood? With Colonel Scarborough? Oh, the mischief!”

“Come,” laughed Miss Marwood, “we’ll go and find them; Mr. Edgeworth doesn’t care; he likes solitude—”

Edgeworth attempted to protest, but was bidden to go with them or stay, as he pleased. And he stayed,—to smoke and muse and ponder on the long dim porch while the dew dripped from the perfumed vines, and the great stars spangled the sky, and the million voices of the night sang of summers past and summers to come. And the burden of the song was always the same, Yo Espero, Yo Espero.

At seven o’clock next morning, Edgeworth stood on the little foot-bridge, leaning both elbows upon the wooden railing. Between his elbows was a fresh white cut in the weather-stained plank, from which a shaving of wood had recently been planed, and on this white space was printed in pencil:

“I shall not see you again.”

He never doubted that the message was for him. He leaned idly upon the rail, reading and re-reading it. A fine warm rain, scarcely more than a mist, was falling through the calm air. The tiny globules powdered his cap and coat, shining like frost-dust.

Presently he fumbled in his pocket, found a jack-knife, opened it, and deliberately shaved the writing from the plank. Then, in his turn he wrote:

“If you will not see me I shall go to-morrow.”

“Let the Beezeley whelp read that and make the most of it,” he muttered, turning away with an unaccustomed feeling of wistfulness.

What he longed for he did not know; perhaps for a little of O’Hara’s society, so he lighted his pipe and started toward the hotel, his hands deep in his pockets, his tanned cheeks glistening with the fine rain.

After a few moments it occurred to him that he had put it rather strongly;—in fact it was an unwarranted and idiotic thing to write. Why in the world should he leave Diamond Springs because a girl whom he had met three times and spoken to once, refused to meet him again? He hesitated, mused a little, and finally resumed his course. Let it stay as it was; it mattered nothing to him anyway. He would leave the hotel,—he would leave the state too, for that matter, for he was sick and weary of the Carolinas, and of the big hotels, filled with invalids who sat in hot baths or drank bottles of nasty “waters.” Would O’Hara go with him? He thought of Claire Weldon and frowned.

“She’s spoiled O’Hara, that’s what she’s done!” he pondered bitterly.

When he came in sight of the hotel he saw Dr. Beezeley pottering about the croquet-ground. When the reverend gentleman walked, his flat feet scraped the gravel and lapped over each other in front, like the toes of a Shanghai rooster.

“Hey!” said Dr. Beezeley, “been a walkin’?”

Edgeworth nodded.

“Want to play croquet?” asked Beezeley, looking at him over his glasses; “it ain’t goin’ to rain much more.”

Edgeworth said he never played croquet.

Beezeley straightened a wicket, hammered a painted stake, and sniffed.

His face, with the bunchy chop-whiskers cut a little close, reminded Edgeworth of the countenance of some big buck rabbit. The reverend gentleman also had other rabbit peculiarities, such as a perpetual appetite, a prehensile lip, and an enormous progeny.

O’Hara hailed him from the tennis courts and he went over, puffing his pipe moodily. But when he found that Tommy intended to invite two girls to make up doubles, Edgeworth flatly refused to play.

“Confound it, Tommy,” he said, “you are good enough company for me, and I ought to be for you. What’s the use of lugging in strangers every minute?”

“Ladies are never strangers,” said Tom airily; “one of them is Miss Weldon.”

“That’s all right,” said Edgeworth savagely, “but she can’t play tennis. Is it a kindergarten you’re setting up, Tom O’Hara? Call your caddy and come on to the links.”

“Listen to the lad!” said O’Hara; “why, man, I’ll go with you where you like and I’ll do what you like,—only,” he added, “I have an appointment to ride at ten—with Miss Weldon.”

“Ride then,” said Edgeworth with a scowl, and turned on his heel, leaving O’Hara a sadly puzzled man.

“What the mischief is the matter with me, anyhow?” muttered Edgeworth, striding wrathfully away across the meadow; “why can’t I let Tommy alone with his girl. I’m making a nuisance of myself I fancy.”

The restlessness which possessed him he did not even attempt to analyse. That it was caused by something or somebody outside of himself he was convinced.

“These people here,” he thought, “are empty-headed and common—when they’re not sanctimonious and vulgar. I’ll be hanged if I’m going to spend the time talking platitudes to girls in golf gowns.”

Of course it was their fault that he felt irritable and bored. He thought of his book, “The Origin of the Cherokee Indian,” but the prospect of shutting himself in his room to drive a pen over reams of foolscap had small attraction for him. The rain had ceased, the heavy perfumed air, vague with vapour, oppressed him, and he looked up at the mountains, half veiled in mist. But climbing was out of the question,—he didn’t know exactly why,—but it was clearly out of the question. He would not go fishing either; neither would he read. What was there left to do? Nothing, except to go back to the foot-bridge.

So when at last, by the highways and byways of cogitation, he had completed the circle, and had arrived at the point from which he started, he found that his legs had secured the precedence of his brain, for already they were landing him at the foot-bridge.

He was really a little surprised when he found himself there. He stepped to the railing to find his inscription. Somebody had shaved it off with a knife, and, in its place was written:

“Good-bye.”

It was then that Edgeworth experienced a most amazing, not to say painful, sensation. It started in the region of the heart, and, before he was aware, it began to affect his throat.

“Good-bye.”

He looked stupidly at the word, repeating it aloud once or twice. Presently he pulled out his knife and hacked away the writing with a misty idea that it might bother him less when it was obliterated. On the contrary it bothered him more than ever. A desire possessed him to go away, but, when he pictured himself in a train, rushing northward, the prospect was not as alluring as he felt it should be. Perhaps it was because he knew O’Hara would not go with him.

“The devil take Tom O’Hara!” he blurted out.

The effect of this outburst did not soothe him; it did, however, frighten a small hedge-sparrow nearly to death.