XIX
HE Siren lay in Gloucester harbor, anchored in four fathoms off the Field Rocks, with the wooded slopes of Fresh Water Cove rising green to the hot glare of an August sky. Across the blue water lay Ten Pound Island, bare and sun-baked and rock-girdled, the squat lighthouse agleam in the heat. The tide was going out over the bar, past the end of the long, gray breakwater, and as the yacht swung slowly around, the town, wandering helter-skelter over its granite hills, moved into the vision of the two men who, for an hour past, had had the after-deck to themselves.
For three weeks the Siren had sauntered up and 'down the coast from Shelter Island to Eastport. This morning she had come down from Portsmouth. To-morrow she was to make the run across the Bay to Provincetown. Four days later she was due at Newport, where Mrs. Ames was domiciled for the summer in the old-fashioned wooden palace that Gordon's father had built almost thirty years ago. The occupants of the luxurious staterooms had changed from time to time during the cruise and now of the party of eight on board only Gordon himself remained of those who had set sail from Newport. Mortimer Poole and his bride—he had married Sallie Craig in Philadelphia in June—were ashore with Mrs. Craig's sister, Gwen, and Lieutenant Haight, on leave of absence from the Torpedo Station at Newport. Mrs. Morrill and Leona were below, doubtless evening up for sleep lost last night when an affair at the Wentworth had kept all hands on shore until three o'clock.
Stretched in deck chairs under the green and white awning lay Gordon and Peter, Gordon a little more tanned, a little thinner, a little graver than in May; Peter a little stouter and much more contented. His engagement to Leona had been announced in June and Peter declared that they were now on their trial honeymoon. They had joined the Siren at Bar Harbor four days ago, and Mrs. Morrill, a poor sailor, had been lamenting the fact ever since. Since the engagement Peter had formed the habit of wearing a perpetual grin, which made his round face look more like a jovial full moon than ever. Gordon had grown used to the grin, but he still found Peter's rhapsodizing on the subject of Leona rather trying. If allowed to, Peter would talk Leona from morning till dark. He had been doing it this afternoon, and Gordon, gazing across the harbor, had good-naturedly seemed to listen. As a matter of fact, he had heard nothing that Peter had said for a half hour. Eight bells struck, and Gordon, coming out of his day-dreaming, broke into the middle of one of Peter's glowing periods without knowing it.
"She's up a half this morning," he said.
Peter stared, open-mouthed. "Who?" he asked.
"C. and W."
"Oh!" Peter took a sip of the contents of the tall glass at his side in an effort to readjust his thoughts. "That's good. I told you so, too. I suppose even Lovering's come 'round by now, eh?"
Peter smiled. "Lovering still regards me as a socialist, but I fancy he thinks me less dangerous than at first."
"You could have knocked me down with a feather the day I took up the paper and read that you'd started in to oust those Johnnies. I thought you'd forgotten all about it."
"No, but I funked it. Then—then something happened and I had to find something to do or—or jump into the river. Sb I did that. It was a good fight." Gordon smiled reminiscently. Then he sighed. "But it was easier than I thought it was going to be. Old Stimson disappointed me. He threw up his hands too early. As a matter of fact I suppose the Commerce Commission inquiry had them scared anyway."
"A good joke on them," chuckled Peter. "The Commission let us down darned easy, what?"
"Too easy by half. They ought to have made us sweat blood. The joke of it is that the Street still thinks the reorganization was a sop to the Government; that it was understood we were to make changes if the Commission would be lenient."
"That so? I say, Gordon, I'm not much of a business Johnnie, you know. What about these darned meetings? I got a notice last week of one. Do I have to trot back to New York?"
"No. Send in your proxy made out to me or Sewall. That'll do just as well."
Peter sighed his relief. "Well, any time you really want me to—to do anything," he said vaguely, "you let me know, eh? Of course, it would be rather a bore to go back there in this weather, what?"
"It would, Pete. That reminds me. I'm going over the line in September. Why don't you and Leona and Mrs. Morrill come along? I'll make you comfortable."
"Rippin'! I'd like to, old man. I don't know, though, about Leona and her mother. I say, you—er—you say something about it, eh? "
"All right. Anyway, even if they don't want to come, you'll join me, won't you?"
Peter looked grave until he caught Gordon's twinkle. Then he grinned again. "Oh, I don't mind your jokes, old chap. Just you wait till you get caught!" He was silent a minute. Then, lowering his voice, he said: "By the way, remember that time I told you about her?"
"About who?"
"Leona. You know; I told you one night in some restaurant or other that I was thinking of doing the Steve Brodie; recollect?" Gordon nodded. "Well, say, old chap, I made a crack about her caring for you. Remember that? You said I was wrong, but I didn't believe it. Well, you weren't!"
"I'm never wrong," said Gordon gravely.
"Shut up! But I—asked her; see?"
"The devil you did! Rather cheeky, wasn't it?"
"N-no, not the way I did it. I used diplomacy." Gordon smiled. "I told her I'd heard it said, you know, that she was sort of sweet on you, but that you said there was nothing to it. Of course, I put it carelessly; see?"
"Peter, without desiring to appear unduly inquisitive, may I ask you to repeat just what she said, in her own language?"
"Of course. She said you were dead right and that folks were always making cracks about things they didn't"
"Peter."
"Eh?"
"I said, her own words."
"Oh, well, I don't remember just how she said it. But that was the idea. And she said that if you were the only man in the world" Peter stopped, reddening.
"She wouldn't marry me?"
"Er—no, not at all, old man! Nothing as—as vulgar."
"Then what?"
Peter sought desperately for words. "Well—er—only that she—she'd die an old maid!"
"Thanks! I feel better," Gordon laughed. "Anyway, I'm glad your doubts are laid at rest, Pete. Otherwise I suppose you'd have gone through life viewing me with black suspicion, eh?"
"Rot! That's not it at all. Only what bothered me was how the deuce she could care anything for me, do you see, if—if she cared for you. I dare say I was an ass to believe what I heard."
"You were, Peter. Have a fresh drink?"
"No, thanks. You see, I'm just getting that liver of mine out of pickle, and I don't—what's that?" Peter struggled to his feet, beaming as Mrs. Morrill and Leona came out on deck. They were both dressed for shore.
"Oh, here you are, Mr. Ames," said Mrs. Morrill. "I thought perhaps you had both gone on shore and left us alone away out here on the ocean. Thanks, Peter, but I shall take this straight chair. It isn't so hard to get out of. Mr. Ames, do you suppose somebody could put us ashore? I want to get a few things at the shops. I dare say—her gaze wandered seaward along the horizon—"I dare say there are shops?"
"I think you'll be able to find anything you want if you don't want what they haven't got, Mrs. Morrill." He gave orders for the launch.
"I've had such a delightful rest," pursued Mrs. Morrill. "Do you know, I felt rather done up after last night? So I lay down and almost went to sleep!"
"I slept a whole hour," observed Leona. "I also snored. If you hadn't been asleep, mamma, you'd have heard me."
Peter looked pained. Gordon smiled. "You, too," he asked, "have shopping to do?"
Leona nodded. "I suppose so. A woman can always shop, you know."
"You'll come with us, Peter?" asked Mrs. Morrill. "I hardly know whether I ought to ask you, Mr. Ames."
"Thanks, but I think I'll stay aboard. Peter will show you where the stores are. He's never been in Gloucester, I believe, and so will be an excellent guide. Leona and I are staying here."
"Leona? Why, I thought, dear, you especially wanted"
"I've changed my mind, mamma," Leona tossed her sunshade onto a chair. "Run along. Peter, be careful of mamma at the landing. She has a passion for falling down."
Peter looked his disappointment, but departed happily a moment later, Leona smiling down on him from the railing. Then, as the launch puffed away, she seated herself comfortably and removed her hat.
"Allow me," said Gordon.
She yielded it to him and pulled at her gloves. The steward bore away hat and parasol and an order for two rickeys. Gordon seated himself at the other side of the table with its bowl of nasturtiums and its litter of newspapers and magazines. Leona folded her gloves and then glanced across at him calmly.
"Well?" she asked.
Gordon offered his cigarette case and she shook her head. He lighted up, flicked the match over the rail and smiled.
"I wonder," he said, "why you're doing it."
"Doing"
"Marrying Peter."
"Oh. Do you really want to know?" He nodded. "Well, then, because he is a man, in spite of his laziness, and because I hope to be able to care a great deal for him in time."
"I'm glad," he said simply. "I rather love old Peter."
"Just Peter, please."
Gordon looked his inquiry.
"Because after I marry him he will not be 'old Peter' any more to any one. Have you noticed any change in him yet, Gordon?"
"He is supremely happy, Fair Lady.*"
She shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing else? I hoped you had. The fact is, Gordon, that Peter is changing and doesn't know it. A year from now you won't think of calling him 'old Peter.' Peter's dawdling days are almost over." She was silent a moment. "Poor old Peter," she murmured.
They laughed together.
"He won't like it at first," she reflected. "He's so used to being a lizard, you see."
"A lizard?"
"Yes. Haven't you ever watched them? They sit in the sunlight, with their eyes closed, all day long. That's what Peter does and always has done. I haven't told him yet."
"Don't," laughed Grordon. "He wouldn't believe it."
"I'm wondering what to make of him." Leona frowned a little. "He isn't brilliant, Peter isn't. What do you think of Wall Street?"
"For Peter?" Gordon shook his head. "I doubt it."
"So do I. Of course there will be money enough, but just to lose it doesn't signify much. Have you ever heard him express any enthusiasm for anything?"
"Nothing but you, Leona."
"Well, I shall have to think of something. I won't marry a lizard."
"He knows horses pretty well," said Gordon presently,
Leona raised her brows. "Oh, my dear Gordon, is it as bad as that? Think of all the worthless folks you and I know who 'know horses'! It's appalling!"
There was a short silence. The steward brought the rickeys. Gordon finished his cigarette and tossed it overboard. Then,
"I suppose you know he was a little bit jealous of you?" she asked.
"Yes, he intimated as much—without meaning to. He also informed me half an hour ago that it was all a mistake; that you had reassured him by saying that if I were the last man on earth you wouldn't marry me." Gordon smiled across at her. She nodded calmly.
"Yes, we have to lie sometimes. As a matter of fact, Gordon, you and I both know that I'd have jumped at you any day in the week."
"And been supremely miserable ever afterwards," he said gayly.
"Yes, I'd have had to risk that. Still—" She pondered a moment, studying him. "Why didn't you want me, Gordon?"
"Aren't you putting the screws on a bit hard, Leona?" he asked with a grimace.
"Oh, that—Don't answer if you don't care to. It's perfectly safe now, I assure you. Besides, I—recovered some time ago."
"I don't think that was difficult to see," he said with a smile. "Just how bad do you hate me?"
"Not a bit, I never did. But you wouldn't let me—care for you, and I had to do something—or pretend to." She laughed lazily. "I fancy it helped, Gordon."
"The funny part of it is," he said, "that if it weren't for Pete I'd—try my luck."
"It wouldn't be any good, my dear. I've recovered, as I say. Besides"
"Well?"
"You don't want me; you want—any one, Gordon. You're lonely and down in the mouth. Take my advice and be careful for a while or you'll find yourself married and done for. It's horribly easy. I almost did it myself."
Gordon smiled assent, thinking of the banished Tommy Tupence. Neither spoke for a minute. A crisp, cool breeze ruffled across the harbor, bringing grateful relief from the humid heat of the day. At last Leona, setting down her glass, said:
"You didn't keep me prisoner here to talk about Peter. What is it, Gordon?"
"You remember the little boy who broke into the family conversation with 'Now let's talk about something interesting. Let's talk about me'?"
"Very well, let's talk about you."
Gordon, leaning forward, studied his clasped hands a moment soberly. "I guess," he said finally, "you know pretty well what the subject uppermost in my mind is, Leona. I don't ask you where she is. I only want to know that she's well and—contented."
"Gordon, I wish I could tell you, but I can't. I had only a note from her in May, wasn't it? saying that she was leaving New York, and saying that she would write to me again. She never has yet. I've wondered why she went. I've wanted to ask you, but—well, I hardly dared."
"She went—" He stopped and viewed her doubtfully. "I want to tell you, Leona; I'd like to tell you the whole thing; only—I wonder if she would wish it. God knows I've ached to tell some one for months. You were her friend; she cared a lot for you; she told me so once. What do you think, Leona?"
"I can't decide that, Gordon. If you want to tell me and it will not hurt her, why, do so. She shall never know from me."
"Well, she went because she had got to caring too much for me, Leona. That sounds a rotten thing to say, but it's the truth. She begged me not to try to find her. Well, I didn't. That's the only decent thing I can say for myself. I drove her away from home, and for all I know she may be starving somewhere this minute."
But Leona shook her head. "She isn't, Gordon. She's too clever a girl for that. She is probably on a newspaper somewhere. I'm certain that if she were ever really in distress she'd come to me or write. I wouldn't worry about that."
"I hope you're right," he answered. "Sometimes I dream the most—the most damnable things about her. Do you believe there is anything in dreams?"
"Only indigestion," she replied lightly. "I suppose, Gordon, you didn't offer her marriage? Don't answer if you'd rather not."
"How could I?" he asked with a gesture of helplessness. "You must understand how I am placed. God knows if I had only myself to consider I'd crawl on my hands and knees to her and beg her to marry me."
She smiled faintly. "You men are strange creatures, aren't you? If the tables had been turned, Gordon; if it had been Peggy that was rich, do you suppose she'd have considered any one else?"
"Don't make it harder," he muttered.
Leona laughed scornfully. "You're all cowards, my dear Gordon, every last one of you, in the final assay."
"Is it cowardice to consider my duty, my father's wishes, my mother's happiness?"
"Yes! It's always cowardice to break a woman's heart rather than overstep conventions!"
"I don't speak of conventions. Conventions be damned! But my mother"
"Your mother would be disappointed, Gordon; she might even be very unhappy for, let us say, six months, although that's a liberal estimate. To save that you send poor Peggy into exile with—well, hearts don't break, Gordon, but I've a notion they fracture; and the doctors say a fracture is worse than a break. My dear, men are brave enough physically; I dare say you'd have gone through fire and water for her; but they're arrant cowards morally. Gordon, if I cared for a man who was poor or disgraced or anything else do you think I'd fold my arms like Napoleon at Waterloo or Austerlitz, or wherever it was, and prate nobly about duty? Not much! I'm just as fond of money and what money can buy, of position and what position can give as any woman in the world, but if the right man came along and crooked his little finger I'd"
Up went one of Leona's feet in a whisk of lace and a white pump flew across the deck.
"—Kick the conventions into a cocked hat and follow him!"
Gordon stared. "Good Lord, Leona!" he exclaimed.
She laughed grimly. "I know. You're terribly surprised. Leona Morrill is supposed to be a lump of ice and a block of marble and—and a piece of wood all rolled into one. But I'm not. I'm just the same as every other woman when it comes to—to the fundamental. And with a woman the fundamental isn't duty or decency or position or wealth; it's love! Will you please hand me my pump?"
"I beg your pardon," he murmured, as he rescued it.
"I beg yours," she laughed. "I've doubtless shocked you terribly?"
"No, but you've surprised me. After this when I think I know a little about women, Leona, I'll take myself gently but firmly by the slack of my trousers and conduct myself around behind the barn and kick myself into a suitably humble frame of mind."
"My dear Gordon, if men would only stop talking about understanding women and realize that a woman is only a supersensitized—is there such a word?—a supersensitized man they'd have no trouble understanding us. The mistake comes in starting out with the preconceived notion that we're something utterly different. We aren't. We're just like you, only—only more so!"
"I'll try to remember," he answered with a smile. Then, "So you think I acted the coward, Leona?"
She nodded vehemently. "Yes, I do, but I have no idea that I can make you see it. Still, perhaps you didn't love her enough. I'm liable to take things rather seriously, you see."
"Love her! Good heavens!" he groaned.
"But now—not quite so much?"
"More, much more, Leona. I thought I cared—a good deal—before; and I did. But after she went away—I began to really understand how much—she meant to me. Oh, but what's the good of talking?"
"Lots. Talking always helps, a fact recognized by my sex, Gordon, and ignored by yours. Besides, we started out to talk, didn't we? So let's talk. May I have one of your cigarettes, please? Do you know, Gordon, I believe it was your taste in cigarettes that first pleased me with you?"
Presently she continued, watching a blue swirl of smoke blow to leeward. "Did you ever learn her name?" she asked.
"No, I never tried. Damn it—I beg your pardon!—but sometimes I wonder if I wasn't a fool to obey her."
"You mean not try to find her?" Leona considered, revolving her cigarette between shapely fingers. "N-no, I don't think you were. I know Peggy fairly well and I'm pretty sure she meant it, Gordon. She—she has more courage and determination than many girls." She was silent a moment. Then, with a sigh, "Why didn't you believe what I told you in Aiken, Gordon, and let her alone? I told you she was not—not the sort of girl to take you without the formality prescribed for such cases."
"The mischief was already done," he muttered. "I—I was fond of her the first time I saw her; that day in the woods."
"Fond! Couldn't you have denied yourself that much? You'd have saved yourself a lot of trouble."
"I'm not sure I wouldn't do it again, if I knew what I know now," he replied. "I'm rotten miserable, and yet"
"But does it occur to you to think that possibly she may be unhappy, too?"
"Yes. And yet—oh, I don't know! Perhaps she's all over it by now."
"Let us hope so," she said. He flashed a look at her. "No? You don't agree with me? You'd rather have her unhappy?"
"No—oh, I hardly know, Leona. Only, if she really cared for me, why couldn't she have"
He paused. "God knows I'd have been good to her. There'd never have been another woman, Leona."
"Um; perhaps. The trouble would have been that if there had been another woman she'd have had no chance. After all, marriage has that advantage; it gives her the right to fight. I don't think I'd blame Peggy for not falling into your arms on your terms, Gordon. Perhaps you would have been always kind and always cared, but she may have doubted it. I should myself. She'd have been giving a good deal for just the honor of being pointed out as 'Gordon Ames's girl,' wouldn't she?"
"I've never blamed her. If I'd felt that way I'd have followed her. She was right. Circumstances were against us, that's all."
"Circumstances," she mused. "Well, perhaps you're right. Perhaps I've been too hard on you. We are tied, we folks with money. Only"
"Only?" he prompted.
She smiled whimsically. "Only I wish I had your chance, Gordon!"
"You could do no more than I've done," he said tiredly.
"Possibly not. I don't know. It's easy to lay out a course for somebody else, isn't it? Is that the Siren's launch coming down the harbor?"
Gordon looked. "Yes. I hope I haven't bored you too much?"
"Not a bit. I'm glad we've had this talk. It's cleared things up a bit for me, Gordon. I've been thinking rather hard things of you. I'm glad to know that—you really cared for her. If I ever learn anything about her—and I shall sooner or later, I'm sure—I'll tell you what I can—if you still want to know."
"Thanks. I shall—always."
"Well—" She watched the approaching launch, its smokestack aglitter in the lengthening rays of the sun. "Try to forget some of the things I've said, Gordon," she went on. "I'm afraid they have been things an unmarried woman is supposed not to even think of. And—and don't think because I spouted of the ideal lover that Peter deserves your pity. He doesn't. Peter will get more than many men get when they take unto themselves a wife."
"I'm not pitying him, Leona," Gordon replied. They both had arisen and walked to the rail. "I think I'm envying him." He took her hand. "And I think I was a fool, Leona, once."
"Only once?" she asked with her slow smile.
"If it were anybody but old Peter, I'd try again," he said warmly.
She shook her head. "Look at my eyes, Gordon."
"I'm looking," he replied a little unsteadily.
"They're not blue."
He flinched. "But if blue eyes are not for me?" he whispered.
"It would never do, Gordon dear. And yet," she added a trifle wistfully, "had you talked so a year ago—. Heigho, I suppose everything's for the best in this funny, puzzling old world."
He frowned. "Then—it's true, what you said, Leona? You really have—recovered?"
She looked at him straightly. "Quite, Gordon," she answered.
He dropped her hand. She laid it detainingly on his arm as he stepped back.
"Be honest, Gordon. Isn't it better that way?"
"I suppose so," he replied ruefully.
Leona smiled. "That's your silly old masculine vanity talking. But I don't want to hurt your vanity, Gordon, for they say that's a man's tenderest spot. I'll give you a salve for it. I said I had quite recovered. So I have to all practical purposes, but, Gordon dear, a woman never quite gets over caring for an old sweetheart. Even now, if you tried you could make me—well, make me unhappy, I think. But it wouldn't be really you—not the you of to-day—I'd be troubling for; it would be the old you and all the old illusions of the time when I really—did care. Do you see what I mean? There's a sop for your vanity. I wouldn't have told you, though, if I weren't quite sure that you wouldn't try, Gordon." She put out her hand to him and he took it. "We've got to start fresh from now, Gordon, and be just the very best of friends. I'm going to marry Peter in October."
"In October! I didn't know you'd decided."
"I hadn't—until a moment ago."
She turned and waved at the launch.