A Young Man in a Hurry, and Other Short Stories Part 20

Miss Castle came into the hall again, and stepped over to the register.

Under her signature, "Miss Castle and maid," she saw "J. Crawford, New York." The ink was still blue and faint.

She turned and walked out into the suns.h.i.+ne.

The future was no longer a gray, menacing future; it had become suddenly the terrifying present, and its shadow fell sharply around her in the suns.h.i.+ne.

Now all the courage of her race must be summoned, and must respond to the summons. The end of all was at hand; but when had a Castle ever flinched at the face of fate under any mask?

She raised her resolute head; her eyes matched the sky--clear, unclouded, fathomless.

In hours of deep distress the sound of her own voice had always helped her to endure; and now, as she walked across the lawn bareheaded, she told herself not to grieve over a just debt to be paid, not to quail because life held for her nothing of what she had dreamed.

If there was a tremor now and then in her low voice, none but the robins heard it; if she lay flung face downward in the gra.s.ses, under the screen of alders by the water, there was no one but the striped chipmunk to jeer and mock.

"Now listen, you silly girl," she whispered; "he cannot take away the sky and the suns.h.i.+ne from you! He cannot blind and deafen you, silly!

Cry if you must, you little coward!--you will marry him all the same."

Suddenly sitting up, alert, she heard something singing. It was the river flowing close beside her.

She pushed away the screen of leaves and stretched out full length, looking down into the water.

A trout lay there; his eyes were s.h.i.+ning with an opal tint, his scarlet spots blazed like jewels.

And as she lay there, her bright hair tumbled about her face, she heard, above the river's monotone, a sharp, whiplike sound--swis-s-sh--and a silvery thread flashed out across her vision. It was a fis.h.i.+ng-line and leader, and the fisherman who had cast it was standing fifty feet away up-stream, hip-deep in the sunlit water.

Swis.h.!.+ swis.h.!.+ and the long line flew back, straightened far behind him, and again lengthened out, the single yellow-and-gilt fly settling on the water just above the motionless trout, who simply backed off down-stream.

But there were further troubles for the optimistic angler; a tough alder stem, just under water, became entangled in the line; the fisherman gave a cautious jerk; the hook sank into the water-soaked wood, buried to the barb.

"Oh, the deuce!" said the fisherman, calmly.

Before she could realize what he was about, he had waded across the shallows and seized the alder branch. A dash of water showered her as he shook the hook free; she stood up with an involuntary gasp and met the astonished eyes of the fisherman.

He was a tall, sunburned young fellow, with powerful shoulders and an easy, free-limbed carriage; he was also soaking wet and streaked with mud.

"Upon my word," he said, "I never saw you! Awf'lly sorry; hope I haven't spoiled your sport--but I have. You were fis.h.i.+ng, of course?"

"No, I was only looking," she said. "Of course I've spoiled your sport."

"Not at all," he said, laughing; "that alder twig did for me."

"But there was a trout lying there--I saw him; and the trout saw me, so of course he wouldn't rise to your cast. And I'm exceedingly sorry," she ended, smiling in spite of herself.

Her hair was badly rumpled; she had been crying, and he could see it, but he had never looked upon such tear-stained, smiling, and dishevelled loveliness.

As he looked and marvelled, her smile died out; it came to her with a distinct shock that this water-logged specimen of sun-tanned manhood must be Crawford.

"_Are_ you?" she said, scarcely aware that she spoke.

"What?" he asked, puzzled.

"Mr. Crawford?"

"Why, yes--and, of course, you are Miss Castle," he replied, smiling easily. "I saw your name in the guest-book this morning. Awf'lly glad you came, Miss Castle; hope you'll let me show you where the big fellows lie."

"You mean the fish," she said, with composure.

The shock of suddenly realizing that this man was the man she had to marry confused her; she made an effort to get things back into proper perspective, for the river was swimming before her eyes, and in her ears rang a strangely pleasant voice--Crawford's--saying all sorts of good-humored things, which she heard but scarcely comprehended.

Instinctively she raised her hands to touch her disordered hair; she stood there navely twisting it into shape again, her eyes constantly reverting to the sun-tanned face before her.

"And I have the pleasure of knowing your guardian, Mr. Garcide, very slightly--in a business way," he was saying, politely.

"Ophir Steel," she said.

He laughed.

"Oh, we are making a great battle," he said. "I'm only hoping we may come to an understanding with Mr. Garcide."

"I thought you had already come to an understanding," she observed, calmly.

"Have we? I hope so; I had not heard that," he said, quickly. "How did you hear?"

Without warning she flushed scarlet to her neck; and she was as amazed as he at the surging color staining her white skin.

She could not endure that--she could not face him--so she bent her head a little in recognition of his presence and stepped past him, out along the river-bank.

He looked after her, wondering what he could have said.

She wondered, too, and her wonder grew that instead of self-pity, repugnance, and deep dread, she should feel such a divine relief from the terror that had possessed her.

Now at least she knew the worst. This was the man!

She strove to place him, to recall his face. She could not. All along she had pictured Crawford as an older man. And this broad-shouldered, tanned young fellow was Crawford, after all! Where could her eyes have been? How absurd that her indifference should have so utterly blinded her!

She stood a moment on the lawn, closing her eyes.

Oh, now she had no difficulty in recalling his face--in fact the difficulty was to shut it out, for it was before her eyes, open or shut--it was before her when she entered her bedroom and sank into a cus.h.i.+oned chair by the breezy window. And she took her burning cheeks in both hands and rested her elbows on her knees.

Truly terror had fled. It shamed her to find herself thanking G.o.d that her fate was to lie in the keeping of this young man. Yet it was natural, too, for the child had nigh died of horror, though the courage of the Castles had held her head high in the presence of the inevitable.

And now suddenly into her gray and hopeless future, peopled by the phantoms of an old man, stepped a living, smiling young fellow, with gentle manners and honest speech, and a quick courtesy which there was no mistaking.

She had no mother--n.o.body to talk to--so she had long ago made a confidante of her own reflection in the looking-gla.s.s. And to the mirror she now went, meeting the reflected eyes shyly, yet smiling with friendly sympathy:

"Silly! to frighten yourself! It is all over now. He's young and tall and sunburned. I don't think he knows a great deal--but don't be frightened, he is not a bit dreadful, ... only ... it is a pity, ... but I suppose he was in love with me, ... and, after all, it doesn't matter, ... only I am ... sorry ... for him.... If he had only cared for a girl who could love him!... I don't suppose I could, ... ever!... But I will be very kind to him, ... to make up."

III