II
When George Wayne arrived at Rose-Cross station, seaburnt, angry, and inexcellent athletic condition, Briggs locked himself in the waiting-roomand attempted to calm the newcomer from the window.
"If you're going to pitch into me, George," he said, "I'm hanged if Icome out, and you can go to Guilford's alone."
"Come out of there," said Wayne dangerously.
"It isn't because I'm afraid of you," explained Briggs, "but it's merelythat I don't choose to present either you or myself to a lot of prettygirls with the marks of conflict all over our eyes and noses."
At the words "pretty girls" Wayne's battle-set features relaxed. Hemotioned to the Pullman porter to deposit his luggage on the emptyplatform; the melancholy bell-notes of the locomotive sounded, the trainmoved slowly forward.
"Pretty girls?" he repeated in a softer voice. "Where are they staying?Of course, under the circumstances a personal encounter is superfluous.Where are they staying?"
"At Guilford's. I told you so in my telegrams, didn't I?"
"No, you didn't. You spoke only of a poet and his eight helplesschildren."
"Well, those girls are the eight children," retorted Briggs sullenly,emerging from the station.
"Do you mean to tell me----"
"Yes, I do. They're his children, aren't they--even if they are girls,and pretty." He offered a mollifying hand; Wayne took it, shook ituncertainly, and fell into step beside his friend. "Eight pretty girls,"he repeated under his breath. "What did you do, Stuyve?"
"What was I to do?" inquired Briggs, nervously worrying his short blondmustache. "When I arrived here I had made up my mind to fire the poetand arrange for the hatchery and patrol. The farther I walked throughthe dust of this accursed road, lugging my suit-case as you are doingnow, the surer I was that I'd get rid of the poet without mercy.But----"
"Well?" inquired Wayne, astonished.
"But when I'd trudged some five miles up the stifling road I suddenlyemerged into a wonderful mountain meadow. I tell you, George, it lookedfresh and sweet as Heaven after that dusty, parching tramp--a mountainmeadow deep with mint and juicy green grasses, and all cut up by littlerushing streams as cold as ice. There were a lot of girls in pinksunbonnets picking wild strawberries in the middle distance," he addedthoughtfully. "It was picturesque, wasn't it? Come, now, George,wouldn't that give you pause?--eight girls in pink pajamas----"
"What!!!"
"And sunbonnets--a sort of dress reform of the poet's."
"Well?" inquired Wayne coldly.
"And there was the 'house beautiful,' mercifully screened by woods,"continued Briggs. "He calls it the house beautiful, you know."
"Why not the beautiful house?" asked Wayne, still more coldly.
"Oh, he gets everything upside down. Guilford is harmless, you'll see."He began to whistle Fatinitza softly. There was a silence; then Waynesaid:
"You interrupted your narrative."
"Where was I?"
"In the foreground with eight pink pajamas in the middle distance."
"Oh, yes. So there I was, travel-worn, thirsty, weary, uncertain----"
"Cut it," observed Wayne.
"And a stranger," continued Briggs with dignity, "in a strangecountry----"
"Peculiarity of strangers."
Briggs took no notice. "I drank from the cool springs; I lingered topluck a delicious berry or two, I bathed my hot face, I----"
"Where," demanded Wayne, "were the eight pink 'uns?"
"Still in the middle distance. Don't interrupt me, George; I'm slowlydrawing closer to them."
"Well, get a move on," retorted Wayne sulkily.
"I'm quite close to them now," explained Briggs; "close enough to removemy hat and smile and inquire the way to Guilford's. One superb youngcreature, with creamy skin and very red lips----"
Wayne halted and set down his suit-case.
"I'm not romancing; you'll see," said Briggs earnestly. "As I wassaying, this young goddess looked at me in the sweetest way and saidthat Guilford was her father. And, Wayne, do you know what she did?She--er--came straight up to me and took hold of my hand, and led me upthe path toward the high-art house, which is built of cobblestones!Think! Built of cobble----"
"Took you by the hand?" repeated Wayne incredulously.
"Oh, it was all right, George! I found out all about that sort ofinnocent thing later."
"Did you?"
"Certainly. These girls have been brought up like so many guilelessspeckled fawns out here in the backwoods. You know all about Guilford,the poet who's dead stuck on Nature and simplicity. Well, that's the manand that's his pose. He hasn't any money, and he won't work. Hisdaughters raise vegetables, and he makes 'em wear bloomers, and hewrites about chippy-birds and the house beautiful, and tells people tobe natural, and wishes that everybody could go around without clothesand pick daisies----"
"Do _they_?" demanded Wayne in an awful voice. "You _said_ they worebloomers. Did you say that to break the news more gently? Did you!"
"Of course they are clothed," explained his friend querulously; "thoughsometimes they wade about without shoes and stockings and do the nymphbusiness. And, George, it's astonishing how modest that sort of dressis. And it's amazing how much they know. Why, they can talkGreek--_talk_ it, mind you. Every one of them can speak half a dozenlanguages--Guilford is a corker on culture, you know--and they can playharps and pianos and things, and give me thirty at tennis, evenChlorippe, the twelve-year-old----"
"Is that her name?" asked Wayne.
"Chlorippe? Yes. That bat-headed poet named all his children afterbutterflies. Let's see," he continued, telling off the names on hisfingers; "there's Chlorippe, twelve; Philodice, thirteen; Dione,fourteen; Aphrodite, fifteen; Cybele, sixteen; Lissa, seventeen; Iole,eighteen, and Vanessa, nineteen. And, Wayne, never have the Elysianfields contained such a bunch of wholesome beauty as that mountainmeadow contains all day long."
Wayne, trudging along, suit-case firmly gripped, turned a pair ofsuspicious eyes upon his friend.
"Of course," observed Briggs candidly, "I simply couldn't foreclose onthe father of such children, could I? Besides, he won't let me discussthe subject."
"I'll investigate the matter personally," said Wayne.
"Nowhere to lay their heads! Think of it, George. And all because aturtle-fed, claret-flushed, idle and rich young man wants their earthlyParadise for a fish-hatchery. Think of it! A pampered, turtle-fed----"
"You've said that before," snapped Wayne. "If you were half decent you'dhelp me with this suit-case. Whew! It's hot as Yonkers on thiscattle-trail you call a road. How near are we to Guilford's?"
An hour later Briggs said: "By the way, George, what are you going to doabout the matter?"
Wayne, flushed, dusty, perspiring, scowled at him.
"What matter?"
"The foreclosure."
"I don't know; how can I know until I see Guilford?"
"But you need the hatchery----"
"I know it."
"But he won't let you discuss it----"
"If," said Wayne angrily, "you had spent half the time talking businesswith the poet that you spent picking strawberries with his helplesschildren I should not now be lugging this suit-case up this mountain.Decency requires few observations from _you_ just now."
"Pooh!" said Briggs. "Wait till you see Iole."
"Why Iole? Why not Vanessa?"
"Don't--that's all," retorted Briggs, reddening.
Wayne plumped his valise down in the dust, mopped his brow, folded hisarms, and regarded Briggs between the eyes.
"You have the infernal cheek, after getting me up here, to intimate thatyou have taken the pick?"
"I do," replied Briggs firmly. The two young fellows faced each other.
"By the way," observed Briggs casually, "the stock they come from is asgood if not better than ours. This is a straight game."
"Do you mean to say that you--you are--seriously----"
"So
mething like it. There! Now you know."
"For Heaven's sake, Stuyve----"
"Yes, for Heaven's sake and in Heaven's name don't get any wrong ideasinto your vicious head."
"What?"
"I tell you," said Briggs, "that I was never closer to falling in lovethan I am to-day. And I've been here just two weeks."
"Oh, Lord----"
"Amen," muttered Briggs. "Here, give me your carpet-bag, you brute.We're on the edge of Paradise."