DP Tool Club 8/CDASC08.ISO/VRAC/LILWOMEN.ZIP/CHPT39.TXT

Text File | 1993-06-13 | 29KB | 670 lines

                   CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

     Laurie went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained
a month.  He was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy's
familiar presence seemed to give a homelike charm to the
foreign scenes in which she bore a part.  He rather missed the
`petting' he used to receive, and enjoyed a taste of it again,
for no attentions, however flattering, from strangers, were half
so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls at home.  Amy
never would pet him like the others, but she was very glad to
see him now, and quite clung to him, feeling that he was the
representative of the dear family for whom she longed more
than she would confess.  They naturally took comfort in each
other's society and were much together, riding, walking, dancing,
or dawdling, for at Nice no one can be very industrious during
the gay season.  But, while apparently amusing themselves in
the most careless fashion, they were half-consciously making
discoveries and forming opinions about each other.  Amy rose
daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sank in hers,
and each felt the truth before a word was spoken.  Amy tried
to please, and succeeded, for she was grateful for the many
pleasures he gave her, and repaid him with the little ser-
vices to which womanly women know how to lend an indescrib-
able charm.  Laurie made no effort of any kind, but just let
himself drift along as comfortably as possible, trying to
forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word be-
cause one had been cold to him.  It cost him no effort to be
generous, and he would have given Amy all the trinkets in
Nice if she would have taken them, but at the same time he
felt that he could not change the opinion she was forming of
him, and he rather dreaded the keen blue eyes that seemed to
watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful surprise.

     "All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day.  I pre-
ferred to stay at home and write letters.  They are done now,
and I am going to Valrosa to sketch, will you come?'  said Amy,
as she joined Laurie one lovely day when he lounged in as usual
about noon.

     "Well, yes, but isn't it rather warm for such a long walk?"
he answered slowly, for the shaded salon looked inviting after
the glare without.

     "I'm going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can
drive, so you'll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella,
and keep your gloves nice," returned Amy, with a sarcastic
glance at the immaculate kids, which were a weak point with
Laurie.

     "Then I'll go with pleasure."  And he put out his hand for
her sketchbook.  But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp . . .

     "Don't trouble yourself.  It's no exertion to me, but you
don't look equal to it."

     Laurie lifted his eyebrows and followed at a leisurely pace
as she ran downstairs, but when they got into the carriage he took
the reins himself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold
his arms and fall asleep on his perch.

     The two never quarreled.  Amy was too well-bred, and just now
Laurie was too lazy, so in a minute he peeped under her hatbrim
with an inquiring air.  She answered him with a smile, and they
went on together in the most amicable manner.

     It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the pic-
turesque scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes.  Here an ancient
monastery, whence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to
them.  There a bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat,
and rough jacket over one shoulder, sat piping on a stone while
his goats skipped among the rocks or lay at his feet.  Meek,
mouse-colored donkeys, laden with panniers of freshly cut grass
passed by, with a pretty girl in a capaline sitting between the
green piles, or an old woman spinning with a distaff as she went.
Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the quaint stone hovels
to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on the bough.
Gnarled olive trees covered the hills with their dusky foliage,
fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones
fringed the roadside, while beyond green slopes and craggy heights,
the Maritime Alps rose sharp and white against the blue Italian sky.

     Valrosa well deserved its name, for in that climate of per-
petual summer roses blossomed everywhere.  They overhung the
archway, thrust themselves between the bars of the great gate
with a sweet welcome to passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding
through lemon trees and feathery palms up to the villa on the hill.
Every shadowy nook, where seats invited one to stop and rest, was
a mass of bloom, every cool grotto had its marble nymph smiling
from a veil of flowers and every fountain reflected crimson, white,
or pale pink roses, leaning down to smile at their own beauty.
Roses covered the walls of the house, draped the cornices, climbed
the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of the wide terrace,
whence one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean, and the white-
walled city on its shore.

     "This is a regular honeymoon paradise, isn't it?  Did you
ever see such roses?"  asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to en-
joy the view, and a luxurious whiff of perfume that came wander-
ing by.

     "No, nor felt such thorns," returned Laurie, with his thumb
in his mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet
flower that grew just beyond his reach.

     "Try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns," said
Amy, gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred
the wall behind her. She put them in his buttonhole as a peace
offering, and he stood a minute looking down at them with a
curious expression, for in the Italian part of his nature there
was a touch of superstition, and he was just then in that state
of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy, when imaginative young
men find significance in trifles and food for romance everywhere.
He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny red rose, for
vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones like that
from the greenhouse at home.  The pale roses Amy gave him were
the sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal
wreaths, and for a moment he wondered if the omen was for Jo or
for himself, but the next instant his American common sense got
the better of sentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh
than Amy had heard since he came.

     "It's good advice, you'd better take it and save your fingers,"
she said, thinking her speech amused him.

     "Thank you, I will," he answered in jest, and a few months
later he did it in earnest.

     "Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?" she asked
presently, as she settled herself on a rustic seat.

     "Very soon."

     "You have said that a dozen times within the last three
weeks."

     "I dare say, short answers save trouble."

     "He expects you, and you really ought to go."

     "Hospitable creature!  I know it."

     "Then why don't you do it?"

     "Natural depravity, I suppose."

     "Natural indolence, you mean.  It's really dreadful!"  And
Amy looked severe.

     "Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I
went, so I might as well stay and plague you a little longer,
you can bear it better, in fact I think it agrees with you ex-
cellently."  And Laurie composed himself for a lounge on the
broad ledge of the balustrade.

     Amy shook her head and opened her sketchbook with an
air of resignation, but she had made up her mind to lecture
`that boy' and in a minute she began again.

     "What are you doing just now?"

     "Watching lizards."

     "No, no.  I mean what do you intend and wish to do?"

     "Smoke a cigarette, if you'll allow me."

     "How provoking you are!  I don't approve of cigars and I
will only allow it on condition that you let me put you into my
sketch.  I need a figure."

     "With all the pleasure in life.  How will you have me, full-
length or three-quarters, on my head or my heels?  I should
respectfully suggest a recumbent posture, then put yourself in
also and call it `Dolce far niente'."

     "Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like.  I intend to
work hard," said Amy in her most energetic tone.

     "What delightful enthusiasm!"  And he leaned against a tall
urn with an ir of entire satisfaction.

     "What would Jo say if she saw you now?"  asked  Amy impat-
iently, hoping to stir him up by the mention of her still more
energetic sister's name.

     "As usual, `Go away, Teddy.  I'm busy!'"  He laughed as he
spoke, but the laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over
his face, for the utterance of the familiar name touched the
wound that was not healed yet.  Both tone and shadow struck Amy,
for she had seen and heard them before, and now she looked up
in time to catch a new expression on Laurie's face--a hard bitter
look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and regret. It was gone be-
fore she could study it and the listless expression back again.
She watched him for a moment with artistic pleasure, thinking
how like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in the sun
with uncovered head and eyes full of southern dreaminess, for
he seemed to have forgotten her and fallen into a reverie.

     "You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his
tomb," she said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined
against the dark stone.

     "Wish I was!"

     "That's a foolish wish, unless you have spoiled your life.
You are so changed, I sometimes think--" There Amy stopped,
with a half-timid, half-wistful look, more significant than her
unfinished speech.

     Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which
she hesitated to express, and looking straight into her eyes,
said, just as he used to say it to her mother, "It's all right,
ma'am."

     That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had be-
gun to worry her lately.  It also touched her, and she showed
that it did, by the cordial tone in which she said . . .

     "I'm glad of that!  I didn't think you'd been a very bad
boy, but I fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked
Baden-Baden, lost your heart to some charming Frenchwoman
with a husband, or got into some of the scrapes that young men
seem to consider a necessary part of a foreign tour.  Don't
stay out there in the sun, come and lie on the grass here and
`let us be friendly', as Jo used to say when we got in the sofa
corner and told secrets."

     Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and
began to amuse himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of
Amy's hat, that lay there.

     "I'm all ready for the secrets."  And he glanced up with
a decided expression of interest in his eyes.

     "I've none to tell.  You may begin."

     "Haven't one to bless myself with.  I thought perhaps you'd
had some news from home.."

     "You have heard all that has come lately.  Don't you hear
often?  I fancied Jo would send you volumes."

     "She's very busy.  I'm roving about so, it's impossible to
be regular, you know.  When do you begin your great work of art,
Raphaella?'  he asked. changing the subject abruptly after
another pause, in which he had been wondering if Amy knew his
secret and wanted to talk about it.

     "Never," she answered, with a despondent but decided air.
"Rome took all the vanity out of me, for after seeing the
wonders there, I felt too insignificant to live and gave up
all my foolish hopes in despair."

     "Why should you, with so much energy and talent?"

     "That's just why, because talent isn't genius, and no
amount of energy can make it so.   I want to be great,or noth-
ing.  I won't be a common-place dauber, so I don't intend to
try any more."

     "And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I
may ask?"

     "Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society,
if I get the chance."

     It was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring, but
audacity becomes young people, and Amy's ambition had a good
foundation.  Laurie smiled, but he liked the spirit with
which she took up a new purpose when a long-cherished one
died, and spent no time lamenting.

     "Good!  And here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy."

     Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a con-
scious look in her downcast face that made Laurie sit up and
say gravely, "Now I'm going to play brother, and ask questions.
May I?"

     "I don't promise to answer."

     "Your face will, if your tongue won't.  You aren't woman of
the world enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear.  I heard
rumors about Fred and you last year, and it's my private op-
inion that if he had not been called home so suddenly and
detained so long, something would have come of it, hey?"

     "That's not for me to say," was Amy's grim reply, but her
lips would smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the
eye which betrayed that she knew her power and enjoyed the
knowledge.

     "You are not engaged, I hope?"  And Laurie looked very
elder-brotherly and grave all of a sudden.

     "No."

     "But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down
on his knees, won't you?"

     "Very likely."

     "Then you are fond of old Fred?"

     "I could be, if I tried."

     "But you don't intend to try till the proper moment? Bless
my soul, what unearthly prudence!  He's a good fellow, Amy, but
not the man I fancied you'd like."

     "He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners,"
began Amy, trying to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling
a little ashamed of herself, in spite of the sincerity of her
intentions.

     "I understand.  Queens of society can't get on without money,
so you mean to make a good match, and start in that way?  Quite
right and proper, as the world goes, but it sounds odd from the
lips of one of your mother's girls."

     "True, nevertheless."

     A short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was
uttered contrasted curiously with the young speaker.  Laurie
felt this instinctively and laid himself down again, with a
sense of disappointment which he could not explain.  His look
and silence, as well as a certain inward self-disapproval,
ruffled Amy, and made her resolve to deliver her lecture with-
out delay.

     "I wish you'd do me the favor to rouse yourself a little,"
she said sharply.

     "Do it for me, there's a dear girl."

     "I could, if I tried."  And she looked as if she would like
doing it in the most summary style.

     "Try, then.  I give you leave," returned Laurie, who en-
joyed having someone to tease, after his long abstinence from
his favorite pastime.

     "You'd be angry in five minutes."

     "I'm never angry with you.  It takes two flints to make a
fire.  You are as cool and soft as snow."

     "You don't know what I can do.  Snow produces a glow and
a tingle, if applied rightly.  Your indifference is half af-
fectation, and a good stirring up would prove it."

     "Stir away, it won't hurt me and it may amuse you, as the
big man said when his little wife beat him.  Regard me in the
light of a husband or a carpet, and beat till you are tired,
if that sort of exercise agrees with you."

     Being decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him
shake off the apathy that so altered him, Amy sharpened both
tongue and pencil, and began.

     "Flo and I have got a new name for you.  It's Lazy Laur-
ence.  How do you like it?"

     She thought it would annoy him, but he only folded his
arms under his head, with an imperturbable, "That's not bad.
Thank you, ladies."

     "Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?"

     "Pining to be told."

     "Well, I despise you."

     If she had even said `I hate you' in a petulant or co-
quettish tone, he would have laughed and rather liked it, but
the grave, almost sad, accent in her voice made him open his
eyes, and ask quickly . . .

     "Why, if you please?"

     "Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and
happy, you are faulty, lazy, and miserable."

     "Strong language, mademoiselle."

     "If you like it, I'll go on."

     "Pray do, it's quite interesting."

     "I thought you'd find it so.  Selfish people always like to
talk about themselves."

     "Am I selfish?"  The question slipped out involuntarily and
in a tone of surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided
himself was generosity.

     "Yes, very selfish," continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice,
twice as effective just then as an angry one.  "I'll show you
how, for I've studied you while we were frolicking, and I'm
not at all satisfied with you.  Here you have been abroad
nearly six months, and done nothing but waste time and money
and disappoint your friends."

     "Isn't a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-year
grind?"

     "You don't look as if you'd had much.  At any rate, you are
none the better for it, as far as I can see.  I said when we
first met that you had improved.  Now I take it all back, for I
don't think you half so nice as when I left you at home.  You
have grown abominably lazy, you like gossip, and waste time on
frivolous things, you are contented to be petted and admired
by silly people, instead of being loved and respected by wise
ones.  With money, talent, position, health, and beauty, ah
you like that old Vanity!  But it's the truth, so I can't help
saying it, with all these splendid things to use and enjoy, you
can find nothing to do but dawdle, and instead of being the man
you ought to be, you are  only . . ."  There she stopped, with
a look that had both pain and pity in it.

     "Saint Laurence on a gridiron," added Laurie, blandly
finishing the sentence.  But the lecture began to take effect,
for there was a wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now and a
half-angry, half-injured expression replaced the former in-
difference.

     "I supposed you'd take it so.  You men tell us we are
angels, and say we can make you what we will, but the instant
we honestly try to do you good, you laugh at us and won't
listen, which proves how much your flattery is worth." Amy
spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the exasperating
martyr at her feet.

     In a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she
could not draw, and Laurie's voice said, with a droll imitation
of a penitent child, "I will be good, oh, I will be good!"

     But Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest, and tapping
on the outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly, "Aren't
you ashamed of a hand like that?  It's as soft and white as a
woman's, and looks as if it never did anything but wear Jouvin's
best gloves and pick flowers for ladies. You are not a dandy,
thank Heaven, so I'm glad to see there are no diamonds or big
seal rings on it, only the little old one Jo gave you so long
ago.  Dear soul, I wish she was here to help me!"

     "So do I!"

     The hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was
energy enough in the echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She
glanced down at him with a new thought in her mind, but he
was lying with his hat half over his face, as if for shade, and
his mustache hid his mouth.  She only saw his chest rise and
fall, with a long breath that might have been a sigh, and the
hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as if to
hide something too precious or too tender to be spoken of.
All in a minute various hints and trifles assumed shape and
significance in Amy's mind, and told her what her sister never
had confided to her.  She remembered that Laurie never spoke
voluntarily of Jo, she recalled the shadow on his face just
now, the change in his character, and the wearing of the little
old ring which was no ornament to a handsome hand.  Girls are
quick to read such signs and feel their eloquence.  Amy had
fancied that perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the
alteration, and now she was sure of it.  Her keen eyes filled,
and when she spoke again, it was in a voice that could be
beautifully soft and kind when she chose to make it so.

     "I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie, and if
you weren't the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you'd be
very angry with me.  But we are all so fond and proud of you,
I couldn't bear to think they should be disappointed in you at
home as I have been, though, perhaps they would understand
the change better than I do."

     "I think they would," came from under the hat, in a grim
tone, quite as touching as a broken one.

     "They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering
and scolding, when I should have been more kind and patient
than ever.  I never did like that Miss Randal and now I hate
her!" said artful Amy, wishing to be sure of her facts this
time.

     "Hang Miss Randal!"  And Laurie knocked the hat off his
face with a look that left no doubt of his sentiments toward
that young lady.

     "I beg pardon, I thought . . ."  And there she paused
diplomatically.

     "No, you didn't, you knew perfectly well I never cared for
anyone but Jo," Laurie said that in his old, impetuous tone,
and turned his face away as he spoke.

     "I did think so, but as they never said anything about it,
and you came away, I supposed I was mistaken.  And Jo wouldn't
be kind to you?  Why, I was sure she loved you dearly."

     "She was kind, but not in the right way, and it's lucky for
her she didn't love me, if I'm the good-for-nothing fellow you
think me.  It's her fault though, and you may tell her so."

     The hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and
it troubled Amy, for she did not know what balm to apply.

     "I was wrong, I didn't know.  I'm very sorry I was so cross,
but I can't help wishing you'd bear it better, Teddy, dear."

     "Don't, that's her name for me!"  And Laurie put up his
hand with a quick gesture to stop the words spoken in Jo's
half-kind, half-reproachful tone.  "Wait till you've tried it
yourself," he added in a low voice, as he pulled up the grass
by the handful.

     "I'd take it manfully, and be respected if i couldn't be
loved," said Amy, with the decision of one who knew nothing
about it.

     Now, Laurie flattered himself that he had borne it remark-
ably well, making no moan, asking no sympathy, and taking his
trouble away to live it down alone.  Amy's lecture put the
Matter in a new light, and for the first time it did look
weak and selfish to lose heart at the first failure, and shut
himself up in moody indifference.  He felt as if suddenly
shaken out of a pensive dream and found it impossible to go
to sleep again.  Presently he sat up and asked slowly, "Do
you think Jo would despise me as you do?"

     "Yes, if she saw you now.  She hates lazy people.  Why don't
you do something splendid, and make her love you?"

     "I did my best, but it was no use."

     "Graduating well, you mean?  That was no more than you
ought to have done, for your grandfather's sake.  It would
have been shameful to fail after spending so much time and
money, when everyone knew that you could do well."

     "I did fail, say what you will, for Jo wouldn't love me,"
began Laurie, leaning his head on his hand in a despondent
attitude.

     "No, you didn't, and you'll say so in the end, for it did
you good, and proved that you could do something if you tried.
If you'd only set about another task of some sort, you'd soon
be your hearty, happy self again, and forget your trouble."

     "That's impossible."

     "Try it and see.  You needn't shrug your shoulders, and
think, `Much she knows about such things'.  I don't pretend
to be wise, but I am observing, and I see a great deal more
than you'd imagine.  I'm interested in other people's ex-
periences and inconsistencies, and though I can't explain, I
remember and use them for my own benefit.  Love Jo all your
days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for it's
wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't
have the one you want.  There, I won't lecture any more, for
I know you'll wake up and be a man in spite of that hard-
hearted girl."

     Neither spoke for several minutes.  Laurie sat turning
the little ring on his finger, and Amy put the last touches to
the hasty sketch she had been working at while she talked.
Presently she put it on his knee, merely saying, "How do you
like that?"

     He looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help
doing, for it was capitally done, the long, lazy figure on the
grass, with listless face, half-shut eyes, and one hand holding
a cigar, from which came the little wreath of smoke that en-
circled the dreamer's head.

     "How well you draw!" he said, with a genuine surprise
and pleasure at her skill, adding, with a half-laugh, "Yes,
that's me."

     "As you are.  This is as you were."  And Amy laid another
sketch beside the one he held.

     It was not nearly so well done, but there was a life and
spirit in it which atoned for many faults, and it recalled the
past so vividly that a sudden change swept over the young
man's face as he looked.  Only a rough sketch of Laurie taming
a horse.  Hat and coat were off, and every line of the active
figure, resolute face, and commanding attitude was full of
energy and meaning.  The handsome brute, just subdued, stood
arching his neck under the tightly drawn rein, with one foot
impatiently pawing the ground, and ears pricked up as if
listening for the voice that had mastered him.  In the ruffled
mane. The rider's breezy hair and erect attitude, there was a
suggestion of suddenly arrested motion, of strength, courage,
and youthful buoyancy that contrasted sharply with the supine
grace of the `DOLCE FAR NIENTE' sketch.  Laurie said nothing
but as his eye went from one to the other, Amy say him flush
up and fold his lips together as if he read and accepted the
little lesson she had given him.  That satisfied her, and
without waiting for him to speak, she said, in her sprightly
way . . .

     "Don't you remember the day you played Rarey with Puck,
and we all looked on?  Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo
clapped and pranced, and I sat on the fence and drew you.  I
found that sketch in my portfolio the other day, touched it
up, and kept it to show you."

     "Much obliged.  You've improved immensely since then,
and I congratulate you.  May I venture to suggest in ` a
honeymoon paradise' that five o'clock is the dinner hour at
your hotel?"

     Laurie rose as he spoke, returned the pictures with a smile
and a bow and looked at his watch, as if to remind her that
even moral lectures should have an end.  He tried to resume his
former easy, indifferent air, but it was an affectation now, for
the rousing had been more effacious than he would confess.  Amy
felt the shade of coldness in his manner, and said to herself . ..

     "Now, I've offended him.  Well, if it does him good, I'm
glad, if it makes him hate me, I'm sorry, but it's true, and
I can't take back a word of it."

     They laughed and chatted all the way home, and little
Baptist, up behind, thought that monsieur and madamoiselle
were in charming spirits.  But both felt ill at ease.  The
friendly frankness was disturbed, the sunshine had a shadow
over it, and despite their apparent gaiety, there was a secret
discontent in the heart of each.

     "Shall we see you this evening, mon frere?"  asked Amy, as
they parted at her aunt's door.

     "Unfortunately I have an engagement.  Au revoir, madam-
oiselle."  And Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the
foreign fashion, which became him better than many men.  Some-
thing in his face made Amy say quickly and warmly . . .

     "No, be yourself with me, Laurie, and part in the good
old way.  I'd rather have a hearty English handshake than
all the sentimental salutations in France."

     "Goodbye, dear." And with these words, uttered in the
tone she liked, Laurie left her, after a handshake almost pain-
ful in its heartiness.

     Next morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a
note which made her smile at the beginning and sigh at the end.

     My Dear Mentor,
     Please make my adieux to your aunt, and exult within
yourself, for `Lazy Laurence' has gone to his grandpa, like
the best of boys.  A pleasant winter to you, and may the gods
grant you a blissful honeymoon at Valrosa!  I think Fred
would be benefited by a rouser.  Tell him so, with my con-
gratulations.
                 Yours gratefully,   TELEMACHUS

     "Good boy!  I'm glad he's gone," said Amy, with an ap-
proving smile.  The next minute her face  fell as she glanced
about the empty room, adding, with an involuntary sigh,  "Yes,
I am glad, but how I shall miss him."


                   END OF CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE