CHAPTER V
A PHOTOGRAPH AND SOME DAY-DREAMS
I DON'T believe compliments are good for the male mind. They go to theirheads. Up to this time in all the years I've known Richard, I'd neverseen him walk up to a mirror and deliberately stare at himself, exceptwhen we were having a face-making contest, and trying to see which couldlook the ugliest.
"I don't think compliments are good for the male mind."]
But the first thing he did after we went into the house was to stop infront of the hall mirror and square back his shoulders. Then he turnedand looked at himself, a long, slow glance out of the corner of hiseyes, and walked away with such a satisfied air that I was dying tolaugh. All the rest of the evening he had a sort of set-up, lordly wayabout him that he had never had before. I am sure that it was the effectof Esther's compliment.
Barby asked him to stay to supper, and he did, to hear all about herWashington trip. He talked to her sort of over my head, as if I were alittle girl who couldn't understand the great war measures whichinterested him. It amused me immensely, for every one knows that a girlof sixteen is far more mature than a boy of seventeen and a half. But Ididn't say anything, just smiled to myself as I sat and knit andlistened.
After supper when I brought out the oval frame to show the family what abargain I got for a quarter, I had the surprise of my life. Tippyrecognized the photograph in the frame. She said there were probably adozen like it hanging up in various parlors in Wellfleet. It was thepicture of a minister's wife she had known years ago. "Sister Wynne,"everybody called her, whether they went to that church or not, becauseshe was so widely beloved. The little boy's name was John.
When this little John was just a baby, Brother Wynne had a call to a bigchurch out West. On the way there they came up to Provincetown to takethe boat, and they stayed all night with Grandfather Huntingdon in thisvery house. Tippy was here on a visit at the time, and remembers itperfectly. Several years later the Wynnes had this picture taken to sendback to friends in their old parish, and let them see how little Johnhad grown. Miss Susan Triplett at Wellfleet has one.
It seems too strange for words to think that once upon a time theyslept in our big downstairs guest chamber in the bed with thebird-o'-paradise valance and the pink silk tester, and that years andyears afterward I should find their picture in a barrel at an auction,and bring it home and hang it up in that very room.
That's what I did after supper while Richard was drawing maps on themargin of the _Boston Transcript_, showing Barby where the Allies wereentrenched. I washed the glass and drove a nail, and hung it up over alittle serving table between the windows. Then I stepped back and heldup the lamp to see the effect. It seemed to belong there, and the littlefellow's big, serious eyes looked straight out at me, as if they weresaying: "Yes, I know you, and I came back on purpose to be put into yourstory."
He seemed so real to me that as I went out, carrying the lamp, I lookedback over my shoulder and whispered, "Good-night, little John Wynne."
Then I went upstairs to get another skein of yarn and wind it on Tippy'sswift. All the time I was doing it I kept thinking of the events of theafternoon, and how beautiful Esther Gilfred looked--how adorable she wasin every way. Those lines from Wordsworth came to my mind:
"She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight."
Also she suggested that line "Queen rose of the rosebud garden ofgirls!" Suddenly I thought, why not write a poem to her my own self. Atthat, a whole list of lovely words went slipping through my mind likebeads along a string: lily ... pearl ... snow-crystal ... amber ...blue-of-deep-waters ... blue-of-sapphire-skies ... heart of gold. Shemakes me think of such fair and shining things.
But it was hard to get started. After trying ever so long I concluded tolook in the dictionary in the list of Christian names for the meaning ofEsther. I thought that might suggest something which would do for astarter.
When I went back downstairs Richard had finished his map drawing. He waslying on the leather couch, as he so often does, his eyes closed, andhis hands clasped under his head, listening to Barby play the piano. Hecertainly did look long, stretched out full length that way, longer thanhe had ever seemed before. Maybe Esther's calling my attention to himthe way she did made me see him in a new light, for, after staring athim critically a moment, I had to admit that he really was asgood-looking as she said he was.
I carried the big dictionary over to the library table and opened itunder the reading lamp. Years ago we had looked up the meaning of ournames, but I had forgotten what Richard meant until my eye chanced onthe word, as I glanced down the page. I didn't want to interrupt themusic, but I couldn't resist leaning towards him and saying in anundertone, just to get a rise out of him:
"Listen to this, 'Apollo,' the name Richard means 'strong like a ruler,or powerful.' That's why you have the 'shoulders of an athlete.'"
But he didn't even open his eyes. Just gave an indulgent sort of smile,in rather a bored, superior way that made me want to slap him. It was asmuch as to say that I was carrying coals to Newcastle in telling himthat.
"Well," I said, in Tippy's own tone, quoting what she always tells mewhen anybody compliments me in her presence, "'There's nothing lastingyou will find but the treasures of the mind.' So you needn't be souppity, mister."
He ignored the remark so completely that I determined not to speak tohim again all evening. But presently I was forced to on account of theinteresting fact I found on the next page. It was too interesting not tobe shared.
"Beauteous Being," I remarked in a half whisper, "don't trouble to openthose gorgeous dark eyes, but listen to this. The name Esther means _AStar_. Isn't that wonderfully appropriate?"
His eyes flew open quickly enough at that. He turned over on his sideand exclaimed in the most interested way:
"Say, I was just thinking what a peach she is, but somehow peach didn'tseem the right word. But _Star_--that fits her right down to theground."
And that from Richard, who never looks at girls! Seeing how interestedhe was in her I confided in him that I was trying to write a poem toher. That she seemed to be set to music in my thoughts, and that shecontinually reminded me of lines of poetry like that one of Tennyson's:"Shine out little head, running over with curls, to the flowers, and betheir sun."
He asked me what that was in. When I told him "Maude," he turned over onhis back again and shut his eyes, with no more to say. But when Barbyfinished the "Reverie" she was playing and he got up to go home, hewalked over to the bookcase and began hunting along the shelves. Healways helps himself to whatever he wants. When he slipped a book intohis pocket I looked up in time to see that it was one of the little blueand gold volumes of our set of Tennyson. Later I found he had carriedoff the one with "Maude" in it. I have wondered since if he would havetaken the same interest in Esther if I hadn't repeated hercompliment--if it was that which started him.
Tippy lost no time next morning in hunting up the auctioneer and findingwhose furniture he was selling, and all about it. What he told her senther to Wellfleet on the noon train to talk over old times with hercousin Susan Triplett. She came back at supper time with a piece of newswonderfully interesting to me.
Little John Wynne is alive and really is back on the Cape. But he'sgrown up now, of course. He's a physician. He worked his way through aWestern college and then went to Harvard for his medical degree. Thissummer he is in Yarmouth, taking care of old Doctor Rawlins' practice,while he's off on a long vacation.
I was so thrilled over all that Tippy told, that on my way up to bed Islipped across the hall for another look at the picture which I hadrescued. It is a pity that "Sister Wynne" died before she knew howsplendidly he turned out. She would have been so proud of him. But shemust have known that he'd grow up to be the kind of man that Miss Susansays he is, because they look so much alike--the same steadfast,dependable sort of eyes and mouth.
As I stood there, holding the flickering candle, with the wax meltingand running do
wn its side, I thought how wonderful it would be if fateshould some time bring our paths in life together. There are so manyways that might be done. He might be called here in consultation anyday. Dr. Rawlins often is. Or he might come up here to spend a week-endas hundreds of people do, because the town is quaint and has historicassociations. I wondered if I'd recognize him from his likeness to thisbaby picture or to his mother, if I should happen to meet himsuddenly--say going into the post-office or strolling along the wharf. Ifelt sure something would tell me that it might be he.
Then I began imagining the most dramatic scene, just as if I werereading it in a novel of which I was the heroine. I would be taking partin an entertainment at the Town Hall, giving the Fire-fly dance maybe,first with the spot-light following me, and then with hall and stagedarkened to give that wonderful fire-fly effect, and all the tiny pointsof electric lights hidden in my costume flashing on and off. And _he_would be watching out there in the darkness, from the front row,watching intently every graceful move.
Then all at once something would go wrong behind the scenes. A cloud offire and smoke would suddenly sweep across the stage, shutting me offfrom escape and almost suffocating me. There would be a moment of awfulsilence while the audience gazed transfixed with horror. Then out of thedarkness _he_ would leap forth, tearing off his coat as he sprang up onthe stage to wrap it around my filmy dress, already aflame, and I wouldfall unconscious in his arms, overcome by the smoke.
Long hours afterward when I opened my eyes, his face would be bendinganxiously over me, and I'd smile wanly up at him, and he'd say in achoking whisper, "Thank heaven, she lives!" I would be lying in thisdownstairs guest chamber instead of my own room, this being handier, andpresently he'd see this picture of himself hanging on the wall.Then--well, suffice it to say, it would lead finally to a beautiful andtouching scene like the one I saw at the movies Wednesday afternoon, inthe last act of "The Harvest Moon."
After I went upstairs that night, I thought of still another way for usto meet, which I shall write down because it would make a good scene ina novel, and I am beginning to think I shall start another one sooninstead of "Divided," which now seems amateurish and childish to me.This is the scene.
I would be a beautiful Red Cross nurse, serving with the Alliessomewhere in France. Into the ward, where I was keeping vigil somenight, would be brought a wounded officer, a member of the medicalcorps who had risked his life giving aid to the dying in the trenches.He would be too badly hurt for me to recognize him at first, till Ifound his mother's picture over his heart, and my calling his name wouldbring him back to consciousness.
"How did you find me?" he would murmur feebly. "How did you know?" AndI'd say, "Because, far away across the seas in my old home on Cape Cod,hangs the picture of 'little John Wynne,' as he used to be. My guardianangel led me hither."
"You ... are my ... angel," he would whisper, and relapse intounconsciousness. I could make it awfully effective to have him die,after I'd nursed him tenderly for weeks, but I can't bear to. I'd ratherhave it end the way I'd want it to end in real life if I should reallymeet him on a foreign battle-field.
Probably, though, if I ever do meet him, it'll be just my luck to becoming in from blue-berrying the way I was last week with a bee-sting onmy lip that swelled it up till I was a sight for the gods.
Oh, if we could only make things happen actually the way we can in ourday-dreams, what a thrilling thing Life would be from start to finish!