The Island of Intrigue/Chapter 6

H, by the way," Aunt Julie remarked at lunch. "Who do you think is coming to see us, Maida? You must have heard of him through your father. It's Mr. Hilton.

"Of course I have!" I exclaimed. "Fordyce and Hilton have been Daddy's brokers for years, in New York. I didn't know you knew them, Aunt Julie."

"They have been my brokers, too, on your father's advice, for a long time," she replied. "I've given them full charge of all my affairs, and I trust them as implicitly as I would your father. A letter came from Mr. Hilton in this morning's mail."

"When will he be here?" I asked.

"Tomorrow morning. It is just a flying visit, you know, on a matter of business. I don't believe he will be able to stay longer than just over night."

"He's such a nice old gentleman!" Bijou remarked. "I'm sure you'll like him, Maida."

"I don't think he's so old!" I protested. "He can't be anywhere near fifty, yet. Daddy says he is one of the youngest men to have attained such prominence in the Street"

"What!" cried Lorna. "You—you know him, Maida?"

"Of course," I replied, surprised at her tone. "Daddy has taken me out to dinner with him several times. I believe his partner, Mr. Fordyce, is older. I've never seen him." "Just fancy your being friends! Isn't that lovely, mother?" It struck me oddly that Lorna's tone wasn't as enthusiastic as her words. She did not glance at Aunt Julie but drank the last of her coffee before she went on. "Mother has transacted more of her business with Mr. Fordyce than with the junior partner. That is why she didn't understand his sending Mr. Hilton instead of coming himself, but I suppose he is too busy."

"I wish your father were here to advise me," remarked Aunt Julie, plaintively. "Of course I trust Hilton and Fordyce, but ever since Daniel died, I've consulted your father, about every big financial move I've made, and I have grown to rely on him."

"Well, if you're not sure about it, mater, keep out of it," advised Alaric, "at least until Mr. Waring gets back from Europe. Women have no business monkeying around Wall Street, anyway! Sooner or later they're bound to take things into their own hands, make a fool move, and get swamped."

"Did you ever know me to make a fool move, as you call it?" demanded Aunt Julie in a peculiarly dry, significant tone.

Alaric looked at her, and a slow smile broke over his heavy face.

"Yes, once," he chuckled. "Wasn't there a man named Bridgewater"

"Alaric!" his mother cried, rising swiftly from her chair. She was trembling violently and her eyes were like points of steel.

"Oh, all right, mater!" Alaric returned easily. "You needn't get ruffled. You asked me, you know!" Still chuckling, he pushed back his chair and sauntered out to the veranda, and Aunt Julie seated herself again.

"Insolent!" she muttered, half under her breath. Her hand shook as she put down her cup and she was quite pale from anger. I couldn't help wondering what Alaric had referred to; the name "Bridgewater" had a familiar ring somehow.

"I think you said you'd never met Mr. Fordyce, Maida?" Lorna asked turning to me after a rather uncomfortable pause.

"No," I answered. "I suppose I shall meet him next winter, when Daddy and I have an establishment of our own in New York."

"I wish Mr. Fordyce could have come instead of Mr. Hilton." Lorna's tone was troubled, and her mother's sharply indrawn breath, like a sigh, seemed to echo it. That afternoon I slipped away by myself and went for a walk. Monsieur Pelissier annoyed me, and the rest seemed so much occupied with their own affairs that I felt as if my presence were an intrusion. The atmosphere of the whole house seemed surcharged with anxiety and suspense, and the tension made me feel horribly ill at ease, although I didn't in the least know why.

Quite unconsciously, I took the path leading to the Barford's bungalow. I had strolled some little distance from Hard-a-lee when I realized the direction in which I was going, and as it really made no difference to me which way I went, I kept on. There wasn't the slightest probability that I should encounter that strange young man whom I had seen the day before. He had doubtless only run out from the mainland for an hour, in that launch that I had observed tied up at the Barford's dock. He had looked rather attractive, now that I thought of him again; very much nicer than Alaric or Monsieur Pelissier. I wondered if he were a member of the summer colony nearby.

I found myself wishing that the Barford bungalow was occupied. It gave me a queer, isolated feeling to be all alone on this remote island, with just the Smith household, and my heart sank again at the thought of the long weeks ahead. Mr. Hilton's coming would be somewhat of a comfort, at any rate.

Soon I saw the chimneys of the house rising among the trees, and I paused suddenly. A blue, feathery spiral of smoke was curling up from one of them, and at the same moment I heard the sharp, excited barking of a dog.

I wouldn't go back, it would look as if I were running away, and there was no earthly reason why I should. However, I didn't need to walk straight up to the house. I turned to the right, and made my way through the trees toward the beach. That young man whom I had seen must have been a Barford. Then, we were to have neighbors after all.

I emerged from the trees and walked leisurely along the sand, but the barking seemed to come nearer, so I seated myself on a rock half screened by a clump of sumac bushes, and waited. The young man, if he passed that way, would not observe me, and I wanted to see that dear, funny little dog again; besides I happened to have on my prettiest embroidered linen frock, and a floppy garden hat with pink roses, which wasn't at all unbecoming.

The little dog appeared, racing along the beach, and when he was almost opposite me, he stopped, sniffing, and began to dig wildly, throwing up the loose sand in a shower behind him.

"That's it! Go on, get him, old fellow!" I heard a voice say, startingly [sic] near. "There he is! Get him!"

The young man came sauntering into view and stood laughing that rich, hearty laugh which I had heard the day before, as the dog with a great show of triumph, unearthed a huge, horrid, sprawling land crab, which snapped viciously at him, and scuttled straight toward where I was sitting.

"You don't want him. Come along, Friday!"

And then I did a dreadful thing; I laughed! I couldn't help it, it just bubbled out. The little dog was such a ridiculous Man Friday, and the young man was far from the gaunt, tattered Robinson Crusoe of my picture books.

He was looking straight at me. I could feel it, although my eyes were on that crab, which was fast approaching. The little dog saw me, too, and bounded forward,—wagging his absurd stump of a tail in the friendliest way. "Come here, sir!" the young man ordered, adding as he drew nearer, "I beg your pardon. I hope the dog hasn't hurt your gown jumping up on it like that. He's no respector [sic] of persons."

"Not in the least," I assured him with dignity, and then I spoiled it all by an irrepressible squeal. "Oh-h, will you please take that crab away?"

He picked the creature up hastily by one of its back legs and threw it far out on the sands.

"Thank you," I murmured, and then, because I didn't know what to do next I bent down and patted the little dog, who instantly rolled over on his back at my feet, waving his ridiculous short curved legs in the air.

"Be careful, he's all wet!" the young man admonished. "He's in and out of the water all day. He loves it."

"Yes. I saw you throwing sticks for him yesterday morning." I could have bitten my tongue out the next minute, but it was too late to recall the admission, and I could feel myself blushing, which was infinitely worse.

"You seemed to be in rather a hurry yesterday," he remarked with a smile. "I hope we didn't startle you by our sudden appearance on your island, Miss Smith."

That was the second time in four days. First that queerly acting sailor on the Tortoise had thought me a member of the family, and now this young man had made the same mistake. It was a natural enough assumption, of course, and it was on the tip of my tongue to enlighten him, but I thought better of it.

"Then you knew that you were not in sole possession,—Robinson Crusoe?" I asked.

He laughed again.

"Of course. I saw your yacht when you arrived. Isn't it rather lonely for you up here, in spite of your large family? It's awfully quiet and cut off from the world."

This must be the son of the Barford's, I decided; the lively young man who, according to Alaric, had been in the newspapers so much.

"We don't mind that," I parried. "But it must be stupid for you—that is, if you are by yourself."

"Oh, no, I have Laddie, you see," he looked down at the dog, as he spoke.

I thought you called him Friday," I returned.

"For the moment," he smiled. "But Laddie is the name he answers to; don't you, old man?"

The dog jumped up on hearing himself mentioned, and eagerly claimed his master's attention.

"I was likening myself to our old friend Crusoe, when you came upon me," the young man continued "although I'm not a castaway here, I assure you. I came quite of my own volition, to finish some work on which I'm engaged."

"Oh," I remarked, a little blankly. That didn't sound very much like young Mr. Barford, from Alaric's description of him. "But you don't work all the time, do you?"

"No. Laddie and I go in swimming, and roam around generally all over the place. You seem to like trotting off by yourself a great deal too. There isn't very much to do here, anyway, but just loaf, is there?"

"Tennis and bridge," I made a little wry face. "That's all the others care about. But it's lovely here, I suppose one can't help being happy."

I'm afraid my tone was rather wistful, although I didn't mean it to be. I wouldn't for the world have had this strange young man think anything was wrong, and that I was taking him into my confidence.

"I don't think happiness depends altogether on the place, do you?"

"On what, then?" I asked. He really had very nice eyes. "On yourself?"

I had suddenly remembered what Lorna had said the afternoon of our arrival when we had that little talk in her summer den, about depending wholly on one's self.

"On yourself, and the people about you," he spoke reflectively, as if he were thinking aloud. "We all need companionship, of one sort or another, I suppose. Underneath the substrata of conventions, we're a sociable lot, we humans."

"But when people are not congenial," I ventured, "when they rather grate upon you"

"Oh, one can be lonely in a crowd, of course. It's only the right people who count" he broke off and I could feel that he was looking at me rather curiously. After an uncomfortable pause, he asked somewhat irrelevantly. "Had you been to the lighthouse when I saw you yesterday? It's a jolly old place, isn't it?"

"It seemed to be rather gloomy and forbidding, and the rocks looked slippery. I didn't go inside," I replied, incautiously.

"What, haven't you ever been?" he asked in surprise. "I fancied you must have explored it, at least when you were here before. It's quite interesting. Everything is just as the men left it when it was abandoned, but it is all going to rack and ruin now."

"Is it long since it was used in the service? I should like to see it sometime," I remarked.

He seemed about to speak and then checked himself, for some reason.

At that moment Laddie, who had been busily scurrying around in the undergrowth halted at the base of a great oak tree and set up a furious barking.

"Look! he's raised a chipmunk!" exclaimed the young man. I did look and I saw something besides the chipmunk; it was the sun, and it had sunk surprisingly low in the west. "Oh, it is late!" I cried aghast. How long could I have been talking there with that perfectly strange young man! "I must go home at once."

"Yes, I suppose you must. I hope I haven't detained you too long. Laddie and I have enjoyed this little break in our solitude."

He held out his hand frankly, and after a moment I laid mine in it. I liked the clear, steady look in his eyes, and his firm, warm hand-clasp.

"Good-bye, Robinson Crusoe," I laughed, and turning with a little wave of my hand, I made my way between the trees to the homeward path.

He stood quite still where I had left him, and I could feel his eyes upon me as long as I was in sight. My heart was beating like a trip-hammer, from my haste, I suppose, and a warm, pleasant little glow of adventure thrilled me. I could not believe that he was wild and horrid, as Alaric had implied; he gave one the impression of steadiness, and strength, and energy of purpose. I would never see him again, of course, unless he called on the Smiths. In meeting and talking with an utter stranger, as I had that afternoon, I felt that I had been unconventional of course, but not actually improper. I realized, however, that it mustn't happen again.

Everyone was dressing for dinner when I reached Hard-a-lee and the veranda was deserted. During the meal, the conversation was all on Mr. Hilton's prospective arrival. I didn't mention my encounter with young Mr. Barford; it wasn't that I felt exactly guilty about it, but as long as the adventure was not to be repeated, I saw no need of referring to it.

We played bridge afterward, Alaric and I against Bijou and her mother and I was genuinely surprised. Alaric had seemed to me to be stupid and shallow, a cheaply glazed imitation of the men about town whom he had met but I saw that in one thing, at least, he was thoroughly master. His card sense was marvellous; he watched the game with the avidity of a born gambler and manoeuvred with the dexterity of a trained one. So this, then, was his metier! I felt that I could understand some of the items of the enormous expense which Aunt Julie had confessed he had put upon her.

It was still quite early when we finished the rubber, and I slipped out to the veranda for a breath of the sweet, pungent night air before I went to bed. I sank into a low chair, and looked out over the silver-topped trees to the softly gleaming sheen of the sea, upon which Daddy would be sailing in two short days. Sailing without me, in spite of all we had planned, without even a farewell word to me! My eyes filled with tears again as I thought of it. It seemed a year since Daddy's letter had come, and it was only that morning; would the interminable days ever pass?

While I was staring miserably out into the night, I heard a soft footfall behind me, and a low voice, nearer than I liked, remarked:

"Ah, so Miss Waring stole away from us all! That was unkind!"

"Indeed no, Monsieur Pelissier," I replied, a trifle shortly. "You were not in the drawing-room when the game broke up."

"You looked for me?" his tone was distinctly ironical. "I am honored."

I bit my lip in vexation, and was silent since the only retort which I could think of at the moment would have been unthinkably rude. After a little, he went on, in totally unnecessary explanation:

"I strolled out here to—how do you say?—to commune with myself, in the beauty of the night. It is perfect, is it not?"

"Yes," I assented hastily. "It is lovely out here."

"Ah, the moonlight!" his voice was dreamy, and caressingly soft. "Moonlight and summer seas and whispering trees, and solitude. Charming, but such a pitiful waste, is it not?"

"A waste?" I repeated.

"Of opportunity." He was so close to me that his breath stirred my hair. "A beautiful setting, without the jewel; every attribute for happiness, save its little god himself! A lover's paradise—and no love. Is it not sad?"

"I think it is quite perfect without any meddlesome, impudent little god!" I laughed, with an ease which I was far from feeling. If this odious creature tried to flirt with me, it would cap the climax of my distaste for the whole situation in which I found myself.

"Ah, it is because you do not know him that you speak so slightingly of him!" Monsieur Pelissier protested whimsically. "Do not scoff at him, Mademoiselle. To some he never comes, though the door is set wide for him by day, and the light burns each night in the window: and to some he comes though bolts are drawn and bars are raised against him. And always he rules when he makes his presence known."

"That is very pretty," I said disdainfully. "I haven't thought very much about it. There are so many other things"

"That is the fault, the one blemish upon the charming demoiselles of your wonderful country." His tone was meditatively impersonal, and I breathed more freely. "With us, our young girls think of him, dream of him, await his coming with eager impatience, but you Americans—you invent for yourselves other interests, other excuses for your existence. Your lives are too full of borrowed things, you shut the doors of your busy homes in the face of the little god who pauses on your threshold."

"I think we have quite as much romance in our make-up as the girls of any other country," I returned.

"No. Our girls look upon every man as the probable lover, you regard him simply as a big brother. That, Mademoiselle, is the difference."

"Not always, Monsieur." I gave that time to sink in before I added. "By probable lover you mean possible husband, do you not? I have had no experience, but I think love means to us a companion, a sharer in all happiness and sorrow the future may hold. But to your demure, confiding ingenues he comes with one hand on his heart and in the other a pair of scales to weight their dot."

He drew in his breath sharply, with a little sibilant note of quick resentment, but I turned my head away and smiled into the darkness. I knew that I had been disgracefully rude and I was glad of it. I forgot the ordinary obligation of courtesy toward a fellow guest of my mother's old friend; I only knew I wanted him to detest me as thoroughly as I did him, and keep as far away from me as our common path would permit.

After a moment he laughed pleasantly, without a trace of annoyance, and said in a tone so bland that it almost cloaked the insolence of his words:

"Ah, yes! You have expressed it far better than I, Mademoiselle. Our women give, and yours—sell."

I rose. I wanted to overwhelm him with a crushing retort, but I felt that I was already beyond my depth.

"Sometimes we do neither; we keep," I said as lightly as I could. "Good night, Monsieur. Sunset Island is very beautiful by moonlight, and it may be inviting to the little god with whom you appear to be on such familiar terms, but I'm afraid it holds dangers for the unwary."

"Dangers?" he blocked my way to the door and his voice was suddenly tense, and very low.

"Malaria, to say nothing of other germs," I said distinctly, adding, "Ennui, for instance."

He threw back his head and laughed again, with an amused tolerance which made my blood boil.

"Touché!" he exclaimed, as he stepped aside, with a bow. "Mademoiselle will be a formidable adversary, when her foil is tempered by experience and tipped with discretion! Bon soir."

I turned on my heel and left him precipitately. I could have cried with sheer vexation and disgust. I had never known until that moment what actual hatred was, and it frightened me to be able to loathe anything alive as I loathed Monsieur Pelissier!