The Pines of Lory/Chapter 10
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TRAPPING A QUAIL
Happy were the days that followed. Pats, uplifted with his own joy, became a lavish dispenser of cheerfulness and folly. Elinor, with unclouded eyes and a warmer color in her cheeks, seemed to have drifted into the Harbor of Serenity. Both were at peace with creation.
In pleasant weather they strolled among the pines, worked in the little garden behind the house, fished, played upon the beach, or explored the neighborhood. When it rained, which was seldom, they cleaned up the house, read books and old letters, ransacking trunks and drawers trying to discover the secret of the departed owner. But in vain. The departed owner had been careful to leave no clew to his identity or of his reason for abiding there. They did find, however, between the leaves of a book, a little chart of the point done by his own hand apparently, and beneath it was written
La Pointe de Lory.
So they felt they had learned the name of the place, but whether it was the official name or one given by the old gentleman for his private use they could not discover.
“There is a town of St. Lory in the south of France,” said Pats. “I knew a man who came from there. Perhaps our host was from that vicinity.”
The days went by and no sail appeared. This, however, was of slight importance. In fact, during that first ecstatic period, nothing was important,–that is, nothing like a ship. It was during this period they forgot to keep tally of time, and they either lost or gained a day, they knew not which–nor cared.
All days were good, whatever the weather. Time never dragged. With a companion of another temperament Elinor could easily have passed moments of depression. For a girl in her position there certainly was abundant material for regret. But the courage and the unwavering cheerfulness of Pats were contagious. He and melancholy were never partners. A discovery, however, was made one morning on the little beach that, for a moment at least, filled Elinor with misgivings.
Midway along this beach they found a bucket, rolling about on the sand, driven here and there by the incoming waves.
“That is worth saving,” and Pats, watching his opportunity, followed up a receding breaker and procured the prize. It resembled a fire-bucket; and there were white letters around the centre. Elinor ran up and stood beside him, and, as he held it aloft, turning it slowly about to follow the words, both read aloud:
“Of–the–North–Maid.”
“Maid of the North!” exclaimed Elinor, grasping Pats by the arm. “Oh, I hope nothing has happened to her!”
“Probably not. More likely some sailor lost it overboard.” Then, looking up and down the beach, “There is no wreckage of any kind. If she had blown up or struck a rock there would surely be something more than one water-bucket to come ashore and tell us. I guess she is all right.”
“But how exciting! It seems like meeting an old friend.”
She held it in her own hands. “Poor thing! You did look so melancholy swashing about on this lonely beach.”
When they returned to the house they carried the bucket with them.
Pats had his own misgivings, however. One or two other objects he had discerned floating on the water farther out, too far away to distinguish what they were. And the fact that no search had been made for Elinor was in itself disquieting. But as his chief aim at present was to bring contentment to the girl beside him, he carefully refrained from any betrayal of these doubts. Nothing else, however, that might cause alarm was washed ashore.
And Pats, all this time, was growing fat. His increasing plumpness was perceptible from day to day, and it proved a constant source of mirth to his companion. One morning he appeared in a pair of checkered trousers purchased in South Africa during his skeleton period. They seemed on the verge of exploding from the outward pressure of the legs within. Elinor made no effort to suppress her merriment. She called him “Fatsy.” And to the dog, who regarded the trousers with his usual solemnity, she remarked:
“O, Solomon!
See him grow fat!
Our erstwhile skinny,
Diaphanous Pat.”
But with “Fatsy’s” flesh came increase of strength, and he proved a hard worker. As soon as he was strong enough he began to build the raft by which they hoped to cross the river. But progress was slow for his endurance had limits, and he could work but an hour or two each day. Their plan was to paddle across the river on this raft as they floated down. Owing to the swiftness of the current they built the raft nearly a mile farther up the stream. With the walk to and fro, which also taxed the builder’s strength, the month of July brought little progress. One afternoon, they sauntered home, the broad, swift, silent river on their right, the sun just above the trees on the opposite bank. Close at hand, on their own side of the river the nearest pines stood forth in strong relief against the mysterious depths behind. Near the river’s bank long shadows from these towering trunks lay in purple bars across the smooth, brown carpet. It was about half-way home that the man, with an air of weariness, seated himself upon a fallen tree. Elinor regarded him with an anxious face.
“Patsy, you have done too much again.” As he looked up, she saw in his eyes an expression she had learned to associate with levity and foolishness. “Be serious. You are very tired, now aren’t you?”
“Just pleasantly tired. But if I were suddenly kissed by a popular belle it would give me new strength.”
When, a moment later, he arose, fresh life and vigor seemed certainly to have been acquired. Catching her by the waist, he hummed a waltz and away they floated, over the pine-needles, he in gray and she in white, like wingless spirits of the wood. When the waltz had ended and they were walking hand in hand, and a little out of breath, the lady remarked:
“When I am frivolous in these woods I feel very wicked. They are so silent and reserved themselves, so solemn and so very high-minded that it seems a desecration.”
“All wrong,” said Pats. “This is a temple built for lovers: shady, spacious, and jammed full of mystery–and safe.”
“But it’s the spaciousness and mystery that make it so like a temple and suggest serious thoughts.”
“Not to a healthy mind. Oh, no! This gloom is here for a purpose. Pious thoughts should seek the light, but lovers need obscurity. They always have and they always will.”
A few steps farther on he stopped and faced her, still holding her hand: “If you will feed the hens to-night, bring in the wood and wash the dishes, you may embrace me once again–now, right here.”
She snatched away her head. He sprang forward to catch her–but she was away, beyond his reach. She ran on ahead and Pats, after a short pursuit, gave up the chase, for his fallible legs were still unfit for speed. With a mocking laugh and a wave of the hand she hastened on toward the cottage. Following more leisurely he watched the graceful figure in the white dress hurrying on before him until it was lost among the pines.
Just at the edge of the woods, not a hundred feet from the house, he stopped. Standing behind a tree so that Elinor, if she came to the door, could not see him, he whistled three notes. These notes, clear and full, were in imitation of a quail. And he did it exceedingly well. The imitation was masterly.
But no one appeared at the cottage door, and after a short silence he repeated the call.
“Perfect!”
Pats started and turned about.
“A very clever hoax!”
And as Elinor stepped forth from behind a neighboring tree, there was a look in her eyes that caused the skilful deceiver to bow his head. With a slight movement of the hands, the palms turned outward, as if in surrender, he offered a mute appeal for mercy.
“So you are that quail!” And slowly up and down she moved her head as if realizing with reluctance the bitterness of the discovery. “What fun you must have had in fooling me so often and so easily! And the many times that I have hurried to that door and waited to hear it again! What was my offence that you should pay me back in such a fashion?”
“Oh, don’t put it that way! Don’t speak like that!”
“And my sentiment about it! My saying that I loved the sound because it took me back to my own home in Massachusetts–all that must have been very amusing.”
“Listen. Let me explain.”
“And to keep on making me ridiculous, day after day, when I was on the verge of collapse from pure exhaustion–yes, it showed a nice feeling.”
“Elinor, you are very unjust. Let me tell you just how it happened. The first morning that I could walk as far as this, you left me here at this very spot, and you went back to the house. I was told to whistle if I wanted anything. You remember?”
Almost perceptibly and with contempt she nodded.
“Well, when I did whistle, I whistled in that way–like a quail. You thought it was a real quail and you didn’t come out. When finally you helped me back you spoke of hearing a quail, and of how much pleasure it gave you. You hoped he would not go away.” And he smiled humbly, as he added: “And you made me promise not to shoot him.”
She merely turned her eyes away, over the river, toward the sunset.
“And I thought then that if it gave you so much pleasure, why not keep on with it? The Lord knows the favors a helpless invalid can bestow are few enough! And the Lord also knows that I have no accomplishments. I cannot sing, or play, or recite poetry. At that time I could not even start a fire or bring in water. In fact, my sole accomplishment was to imitate a bird. ’Tis a humble gift, but I resolved to make the most of it.”
She stood facing him, about a dozen feet away, a striking figure, with the light from the setting sun on her white dress, the dark recesses of the wood for a background. Into her face came no signs of relenting. But he detected in her eyebrows a slight movement as if to maintain a frown, and he ventured nearer, slowly, as a dog just punished manœuvres for forgiveness. Removing his straw hat he knelt before her, his eyes upon the ground.
“I confess to a guilty feeling every time I did it. I knew a day of reckoning would come. But I was postponing it. I am ashamed, really ashamed; but on my honor my motive was good. Please be merciful.”
“Are you serious?–or trying to be funny, and not really caring much about it?”
“I am serious; very serious.”
“Do you realize what a contemptible trick it was–how mean-spirited and ungrateful?”
Lower still sank his head. “I do.”
“And you promise never to deceive me again?”
“I swear it.”
“You value my good opinion, I suppose.”
“I would rather die than lose it!”
“Well, you have lost it, and forever.”
From the bowed head came a groan. At this point Solomon approached the kneeling figure and placed his nose inquiringly against the criminal’s ear. And the criminal involuntarily shrank from the cold contact. At this the lady smiled, but unobserved by the kneeling man.
“Are you sincerely and thoroughly ashamed?”
“Yumps.”
“What?”
“Yes, oh, yes!”
“I don’t like your manner.”
“Please like it. I am honest now. I shall always be good.”
“You couldn’t. It isn’t in you.”
“There is going to be a mighty effort.”
“Get up!”
He obeyed. As their eyes met, he smiled, but with a frown she pointed toward the cottage. “Turn around and walk humbly with your head down. You are not to speak until spoken to. And you are to be in disgrace for three days.”
“Oh! Three days?”
“Go ahead.”
And again he obeyed.
Elinor was firm. For three days the disgrace endured. But it was not of a nature to demolish hope or even to retard digestion. And Solomon, who was a keen observer, displayed no unusual sympathy, and evidently failed to realize that his master was in any serious trouble.
On pleasant evenings Pats and Elinor often went to the beach below and sat upon the rocks, always attended by Solomon, the only chaperon at hand. Here they were nearer the water. And one evening they found much happiness in watching a big, round moon as it rose from the surface of the Gulf. The silence, the shimmer of the moonlight on the waters–all tended to draw lovers closer together. Already the heads of these two people were so near that the faintest tone sufficed. And they murmured many things–things strictly between themselves, that would appear of an appalling foolishness if repeated here–or anywhere. They also talked on serious subjects; subjects so transcendentally serious as to be of interest only by night. Like all other lovers they exchanged confidences. Once, when Pats was speaking of his family she suddenly withdrew her hand. “By the way, there is something to be explained. Tell me about that interview with your father.”
“Which interview?”
“The disgraceful, murderous one.”
Pats reflected. “There were several.”
“Oh, Patsy! Are you so bad as that?”
“As what?”
“But you did not mean to do him injury, did you?”
“I do him injury?” he inquired, in a mild surprise. “Why, what are you driving at, Elinor?”
“I mean the quarrel in the arbor.”
“And what happened?”
“You know very well.”
“Indeed I do! But there were several quarrels. Which one do you mean?”
“I mean the one when you were violent–and murderous.”
“But I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were. I know all about it.”
“If you know all about it, what do you want me to tell?”
“Tell about the worst quarrel of all.”
“That must have been the last one.”
“Well, tell me about that.”
Pats took a long breath, then began: “The old gentleman was a hot Catholic. There was no harm in that, you will think. And I am not such a fool as to spoil a night like this by a religious discussion.”
“Go on.”
“Well, he insisted upon my becoming a Catholic priest. Now, for a young man just out of college–and Harvard College at that–it was a good deal to ask. Wasn’t it?”
“Continue.”
“One day in that summer-house he sailed away into one of his tempers–did you ever happen to see him in that condition?”
“No, but I have heard of them.”
“Well, my mother was a Unitarian. So was I. And the gulf between a Unitarian and a Catholic priest is about as wide as from here to that moon. It was like asking me to become a beautiful young lady–or a green elephant–I simply couldn’t. Perhaps you agree with me?”
“Go on. Don’t ask so many questions.”
“I told him, respectfully, it was impossible. Then as he made a rush for me I saw, from his eyes and his white face, that murder and sudden death were in the air. Being younger I could dodge him and get away, and that so increased his fury that he fell down on the gravel walk in a sort of convulsion–or fit. I ran into the house for assistance, and while Sally and Martha tried to bring him to I went for the doctor.”
A silence followed this story. At last Elinor inquired if his father persisted.
“Persisted! That question, oh, Angel Cook, shows how little you knew my father! As soon as he recovered he lost no time in telling me to leave the house and never see him again.”
“And what happened?”
“I vanished.”
“Oh!” A sympathetic pressure of his hand and the girl beside him leaned closer still. “Horrible! So you wandered out into the world and this is your home-coming. Well, Patsy, I shall never treat you in that way. When you are very obstinate I shall just put my arms around your neck and treat you very differently.”
“Well,” said Pats, “I think it safer for you to be doing that most of the time, anyway. It might stave off any inclination to obstinacy.”
Here followed a snug, celestial silence, broken at last by Pats. “Would you mind telling me, O Light of the North, where you heard I was the attacking party at that interview?”
“No, I must not tell.”
“Did Father Burke make you promise?”
“Why do you mention him?”
“For lots of reasons. One is that he is the only person on earth who could possibly have told you. But it was clever of him to warn you against me. I knew from his expression when he said good-by, on the boat, that he thought he had settled my prospects, and to his perfect satisfaction. However, I don’t ask you to betray him. And I bear no malice. He did his best to undo me, but Love and all the angels were on my side.”
She laughed gently. “And you all made a strong combination, Patsy.”
Then another long silence, and soon he felt the lady leaning more heavily against him. The head drooped and he knew she slumbered. Having no wish to disturb her, he sat for a while without moving, and watched the moon and thought delectable thoughts of the creature by his side. And as his thoughts, involuntarily, and in an amiable spirit, travelled back to Father Burke, he smiled as he pictured quite a different expression on the face of the priest when he should learn what had happened. And the smile seemed reflected in the radiant countenance of the big, round moon mounting slowly in the heavens. She appeared to beam approval upon him and upon the precious burden he supported. But with the drowsiness which soon came stealing over him he saw–or dreamed he saw–out in the glistening path of light between the moon and him, not far from where he sat, an object like a human face, upturned, moving gently with the waves. And mingling among the quivering moonbeams around the head was a silvery halo that might be the hair of Father Burke; for the face resembled his.
Pats was startled and became wide awake. Even then, he thought he had a glimpse of the face with its silver hair, as it drifted out of the bar of light into the darkness, slowly, toward the sea.