The Pines of Lory/Chapter 13
XIII
THE HORN OF PLENTY
Heavy showers escorted the travellers during the last afternoon of their homeward march. Of the trio Solomon was the wettest, for his two friends were enfolded in a rubber blanket, drawn over their heads and shoulders and held together in front. Thus, by walking arm in arm and keeping close together, they escaped a soaking. But Elinor was tired, with a tendency to sadness. This was excusable, as the failure of the expedition left the choice of a perilous experiment on the raft or of starvation at the cottage. Even the saturated Solomon, as he preceded them with drooping head, seemed to have lost his buoyancy.
But Pats, whatever his inward state, continued an unfailing well-spring of cheerfulness and courage. Not a disheartening word escaped him, nor a sign of weakening. And his efforts to enliven his companion were persistent–and successful. Being of a hopeful and self-reliant nature this task was not so very difficult.
At last, toward the middle of the afternoon, in rain and mist, they came to the eastern end of their own beach. But all view was shut out. Both the cottage and the point of land on which it stood were hidden in the fog. As they tramped along this beach, on the hard wet sand, the wind and rain from the open sea came strong against their faces.
“It will be good to get back,” said Elinor.
“Yes, but I like this better,” and Pats drew the rubber blanket a little closer still. “Our life at the cottage is too confined; too cut and dried, too conventional and ceremonious.”
“Too much company?”
“No, just enough. But too much routine and sameness. Above all, it is too laborious. The charm of this life is having no chores to be done. No shaving; no floors to scrub or windows to clean.”
“Poor boy! And you must work doubly hard when we first get back. To begin with, you will have to eat your half of all the eggs that have been laid.”
“Not an egg! I swear it!”
“Let’s see–four days. That will make about thirty-six eggs. You must eat eighteen this afternoon.”
Their heads were of necessity very close together, and as Pats with a frown turned his face to look at her, she continued: “And to-morrow being your birthday, you shall have a double allowance. Just think of being thirty-one years old! Why, Patsy, it take one’s breath away.”
“Yes, it is a stupendous thought.”
“How does it feel?”
“Well, I can still see and hear a little; and I am holding on to my teeth. Of course, the lungs, liver, brain, and all the more perishable organs have long since gone.”
“Naturally.”
“But the heart is still there, and thumping hard and strong for the finest woman in the world.”
“Well, the heart is everything, and you are a good boy–I mean a good old man.”
“Thanks.”
“And as soon as we get to the cottage I shall–” She pressed his arm, stopped suddenly, and listened. “Why, what was that?”
“What was what?”
“Out on the water, off the point there. I heard a noise like a steamboat.”
Both listened.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I certainly thought so.”
Again they listened. Nothing was heard, however, except the lapping of the waves along the beach.
At last, in a low tone, Pats muttered:
“A whole fleet might be within a mile on a day like this and nobody know it. Are you sure it wasn’t Solomon? He is a heavy breather sometimes.”
She sighed. “Very likely. With this blanket about one’s ears anything was possible.”
They started on again. A few moments later the final shower had ceased. Swiftly the clouds dispersed, but the mist, although illumined by the sun, still lingered over land and sea. Solomon, followed by his friends, climbed the gentle ascent at the end of the beach, and as they hastened on among the pines all felt a mild excitement on approaching the cottage.
Gathered about the doorway, as if to welcome the returning travellers, stood a few white hens and the pompous rooster. To this impressive bird Pats took off his hat with a deferential bow.
“Glad to see you again, Senator.”
“Why ‘Senator’? Because nobody listens when he talks?” Elinor had been to Washington.
“Yes; and he knows so little and feels so good over it.”
From its hiding-place behind the vines, Pats took the key and opened the door. With a military salute he stood aside, and the lady entered. He followed; and as he unslung his knapsack Elinor looked about her with a pleased expression.
“How rich it all is!” she exclaimed. “I had forgotten what a splendid collection we had.”
Pats drew a long breath, as if to inhale the magnificence.
“Are you familiar with bric-à-brac shops?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And with the rooms of old palaces and châteaux that are opened only when visitors arrive?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this is that smell.”
She also inhaled, and closed her eyes. “So it is.”
“It’s the tapestries and old wood, and the bloom on the paintings, I suppose. But it’s good. I like it.”
“It’s a little musty, perhaps, but–”
She stopped so suddenly that Pats turned toward her. With a look of surprise she was pointing to the dining-table, close beside them. In the centre of this table, and very white against the dark oak, lay an envelope. Upon it had been placed a silver spoon to prevent disturbance from any possible gust of air through the open door.
“Some one has been here!” And she regarded Pats with startled eyes.
Before touching the letter he instinctively cast a look about the room for other evidence. While he was doing it, Elinor pointed toward the farther end of the cottage, to the kitchen table, and whispered:
“Look!”
Upon that table rested a pile of cans, boxes, and sundry packages. For a short moment both regarded in silence this almost incredible display. Then Pats took up the letter. On the envelope was no address–no name nor writing whatsoever. He turned it over in his fingers. “I suppose it is intended for the old gentleman, the owner of the place.”
“And how careful they are that nobody shall know his name.”
“There must have been several men here to bring up all these provisions, and whoever left the letter had no intention of giving the old gentleman away,” and Pats tossed the letter upon the table.
Elinor in turn picked it up and looked it over. “I would like to know what it says.”
“So would I,” said Pats. “Let’s open it.”
“Open another man’s letter!” And she frowned.
“It may not be a letter. It may be some information as to when they are coming again, or what he is to do about provisions or something important for us to know. Our getting away from here may depend on what is inside that envelope.”
“Yes, that is possible.”
“Well, open it.”
But she handed it back to him. “No, you must do it.”
Pats tore open the envelope. Elinor stepped nearer and stood beside him, that she also might read.
“It is in French.” Then he began
“Monsieur le Duc–”
“Why, the old gentleman was a duke!” exclaimed Elinor.
“I am not surprised. You know we always suspected him of being a howling swell. But this writing and the language are too much for me. You really must read it.” And he put the paper in her hands.
Elinor’s French was perfect, but after the first sentence Pats interrupted:
“Translate as you go along. It is too important to take chances with, and I never was at home in that deceitful tongue.”
Elinor dropped into the chair that stood beside her. Pats sat upon the edge of the table.
- Monsieur Le Duc:
- It is with a grand regret that I find myself unable to pay my respects in person to your Grace, but a broken ankle keeps me a prisoner in the cabin. If there is anything your Grace wishes to communicate, have the extreme goodness to send me a note by the bearer. He can be trusted.
- I leave the stores following last instructions. Enclosed is the list. The bearer will bring to me your new list from behind the door, if by chance you are not at home.
Your Grace’s devoted servitor,
She laid the letter on the table. “What a shame! It really tells us nothing.”
“Not a thing. Lafenestre might at least have mentioned the date of the next visit.”
“They all seem dreadfully afraid we may learn something.” She took up the other paper and unfolded it. “This is the list.”
Then she read:
“Four sacks corn-meal,
Two sacks Graham flour,
Four boxes crackers,
Two barrels potatoes.”
“Those must be downstairs,” said Pats. “I see the cellar door is open.”
Elinor continued:
“One box lemons,
Four dozen candles,
Four dozen Pontet Canet,
Six pounds tobacco–”
“Good!” said Pats. “Just what we need.”
She went on:
“Four pounds coffee,
Four boxes matches,
One pocket-knife,
Six pairs woollen socks,
Six old maids–”
“Six what?”
“Six old maids: vieilles filles–that is certainly old maids.”
“Yes, but, Heavens! What does he want so many for? And where are they? In the cellar?”
She smiled, still regarding the paper. “But you needn’t worry. They are something to wear. It says six old maids, extra thick and double length.”
“Double length! Well, each man to his taste. Go on.”
“That is all,” and she dropped the paper on the table and looked up into his face. Thoughtfully he stroked the three days’ beard upon his chin. He was watching through the open door the last clouds of mist as they floated by, driven before the wind.
Suddenly he jumped to his feet. “Then you were right about the boat! You did hear one. And it was here an hour ago!”
Quickly he snatched a shotgun from the wall, rushed out of the house, down to the edge of the point and discharged one of the barrels. He shouted at the top of his voice, fired the second barrel and shouted again. For a few moments he stood looking off into the slowly dissolving fog, listening vainly for an answering sound.
Elinor joined him.
“I know it’s of no use,” he said, “for the wind is in the wrong direction. But I thought I would try it.”
A moment later the final cloud of mist in which they stood was swept away, giving a clear view over all the waters to the south. And they saw, disappearing toward the west, around a promontory, a speck upon the blue horizon, and behind it a line of smoke.
In a melancholy silence both watched this far-away handful of vapor until it faded into space. When no trace remained of the vanished craft, Pats dropped the empty gun, slowly turned his head and regarded his companion. In Elinor’s eyes, as they met his own, he recognized a gallant effort at suppressing tears. Remembering her resolve of yesterday he smiled,–a smile of admiration, of gratitude, and encouragement.
She also smiled, for she read his thoughts. And something more was plainly written in his face,–that self-effacing, immortal thing that lovers live on; and it shone clear and honest from this lover’s eyes. Whereupon she stepped forward; he gathered her in his arms, and an ancient ceremony was observed,–very ancient, indeed, primitive and easily executed.
Solomon, weary of this oft-repeated scene, looked away with something like a sigh, then closed his eyes in patience.