CHAPTER II
OUT IN THE BLOWY WET WEATHER
The room lightened a little and Constance rose and walked to the window.
"It isn't raining so hard, any more," she said. "I think I shall go fora walk in the Park."
The young man by the fire looked a little dismayed. The soft chair andthe luxurious room were so much more comfortable than the Park on such aday as this.
"Don't you think we'd better put it off?" he asked, walking over besideher. "It's still raining a good deal, and it's quite windy."
"I said that _I_ was going for a walk in the Park," the girl reiterated."I shall run, too. When I was a child I always loved to run through astorm. It seemed like flying. You can stay here by the fire and keepnice and cozy. Mamma will be glad to come in and talk to you. She willnot urge you to do and be things. She thinks you well enough as you are.She says you have repose, and that you rest her--she means, of course,after a session with me."
"I have the greatest regard for your mother--I might even say sympathy.Indeed, when I consider the serene yet sterling qualities of both yourparents, I find myself speculating on the origin of your own--eh--ratherunusual and, I hasten to add, wholly charming personality."
She smiled, but he thought a little sadly.
"I know," she said, "I am a trial, and, oh, I want to be such a comfortto them!" Then she added, somewhat irrelevantly, "But Father made hisfight, too. It was in trade, of course, but it was a splendid battle,and he won. He was a poor boy, you know, and the struggle was bitter.You should stay and ask him to tell you about it. He will be homepresently."
He adopted her serious tone.
"I think myself I should stay and have an important talk with yourfather," he said. "I have been getting up courage to speak for sometime."
She affected not to hear, and presently they were out in the wildweather, protected by waterproofs and one huge umbrella, beating theirway toward the Fifty-ninth Street entrance to Central Park. Not manypeople were there, and, once within, they made their way by side paths,running and battling with the wind, laughing and shouting like children,until at last they dropped down on a wet bench to recover breath.
"Oh," she panted, "that was fine! How I should like to be in themountains such weather as this. I dream of being there almost everynight. I can hardly wait till we go."
Her companion assented rather doubtfully.
"I have been in the mountains in March," he said. "It was pretty nasty.I suppose you have spent summers there. I believe you went to thePyrenees."
"But I know the mountains in March, too--in every season, and I lovethem in all weathers. I love the storms, when the snow and sleet andwind come driving down, and the trees crack, and the roads are blocked,and the windows are covered with ice; when there's a big drift at thedoor that you must climb over, and that stays there almost till theflowers bloom. And when the winter is breaking, and the great rainscome, and the wind,--oh, it's no such little wind as this, but wind thattears up big trees and throws them about for fun, and the limbs fly, andit's dangerous to go out unless you look everywhere, and in the nightsomething strikes the roof, and you wake up and lie there and wonder ifthe house itself won't be carried away soon, perhaps to the ocean, andturn into a ship that will sail until it reaches a country where the sunshines and there are palm trees, and men who wear turbans, and wherethere are marble houses with gold on them. And in that country where thelittle house might land, a lot of people come down to the shore and theykneel down and say, 'The sea has brought a princess to rule over us.'Then they put a crown on her head and lead her to one of the marble andgold houses, so she could rule the country and live happy ever after."
As the girl ran on, her companion sat motionless, listening--meanwhilesteadying their big umbrella to keep their retreat cozy. When shepaused, he said:
"I did not know that you knew the hills in winter. You have seen andfelt much more than I. And," he added reflectively, "I should not think,with such fancy as yours, that you need want for a vocation; you shouldwrite."
She shook her head rather gravely. "It is not fancy," she said, "atleast not imagination. It is only reading. Every child with afairy-book for companionship, and nature, rides on the wind or followssubterranean passages to a regal inheritance. Such things mean nothingafterward. I shall never write."
They made their way to the Art Museum to wander for a little through thegalleries. In the Egyptian room they lingered by those glass cases wheremen and women who died four thousand years ago lie embalmed in countlesswrappings and cryptographic cartonnage--exhibits, now, for the curiouseye, waiting whatever further change the upheavals of nations or theprogress of an alien race may bring to pass.
They spoke in subdued voice as they regarded one slender covering whichenclosed "A Lady of the House of Artun"--trying to rebuild in fancy herlife and surroundings of that long ago time. Then they passed to thearray of fabrics--bits of old draperies and clothing, even dolls'garments--that had found the light after forty centuries, and theypaused a little at the cases of curious lamps and ornaments and symbolsof a vanished people.
"Oh, I should like to explore," she murmured, as she looked at them. "Ishould like to lead an expedition to uncover ancient cities, somewherein Egypt, or India, or Yucatan. I should like to find things right wherethey were left by the people who last saw them--not here, all arrangedand classified, with numbers pasted on them. If I were a man, I shouldbe an explorer, or maybe a discoverer of new lands--places where no onehad ever been before." She turned to him eagerly, "Why don't you becomean explorer, and find old cities or--or the North Pole, or something?"
Mr. Weatherby, who was studying a fine scarab, nodded.
"I have thought of it, I believe. I think the idea appealed to me once.But, don't you see, it takes a kind of genius for those things.Discoverers are born, I imagine, as well as poets. Besides"--he loweredhis voice to a pitch that was meant for tenderness--"at the North Pole Ishould be so far from you--unless," he added, reflectively, "we wentthere on our wedding journey."
"Which we are as likely to do as to go anywhere," she said, rathercrossly. They passed through the corridor of statuary and up thestairway to wander among the paintings of masters old and young. By awall where the works of Van Dyck, Rembrandt and Velasquez hung, sheturned on him reproachfully.
"These men have left something behind them," she commented--"somethingwhich the world will preserve and honor. What will you leave behindyou?"
"I fear it won't be a picture," he said humbly. "I can't imagine one ofmy paintings being hung here or any place else. They might hang thepainter, of course, though not just here, I fancy."
In another room they lingered before a painting of a boy and a girldriving home the cows--Israel's "Bashful Suitor." The girl contemplatedit through half-closed lids.
"You did not look like that," she said. "You were a self-possessed bigboy, with smart clothes, and an air of ownership that comes of having alot of money. You were a good-hearted boy, rather impulsive, I shouldthink, but careless and spoiled. Had Israel chosen you it would havebeen the girl who was timid, not you."
He laughed easily.
"Now, how can you possibly know what I looked like as a boy?" hedemanded. "Perhaps I was just such a slim, diffident little chap as thatone. Time works miracles, you know."
"But even time has its limitations. I know perfectly well how you lookedat that boy's age. Sometimes I see boys pass along in front of thehouse, and I say: 'There, he was just like that!'"
Frank felt his heart grow warm. It seemed to him that her confessionshowed a depth of interest not acknowledged before.
"I'll try to make amends, Constance," he said, "by being a little nearerwhat you would like to have me now," and could not help adding, "onlyyou'll have to decide just what particular thing you want me to be, andplease don't have the North Pole in it."
Out in the blowy wet weather again, by avenues and by-ways, they racedthrough the Park, climbing up to look over at the wind-driven water o
fthe old reservoir, clambering down a great wet bowlder on the otherside--the girl as agile and sure of foot as a boy. Then they pushedtoward Eighth Avenue, missed the entrance and wandered about in alabyrinth of bridle-paths and footways, suddenly found themselves backat the big bowlder again, scrambled up it warm and flushed with theexertion, and dropped down for a moment to breathe and to get theirbearings.
"I always did get lost in this place," he said. "I have never been ableto cross the Park and be sure just where I was coming out." Then theylaughed together happily, glad to be lost--glad it was raining andblowing--glad, as children are always glad, to be alive and together.
They were more successful, this time, and presently took an EighthAvenue car, going down--not because they especially wanted to go down,but because at that time in the afternoon the down cars were emptier.They had no plans as to where they were going, it being their habit onsuch excursions to go without plans and to come when the spirit moved.
They transferred at the Columbus statue, and she stood looking up at itas they waited for a car.
"That is my kind of a discoverer," she said; "one who sails out to finda new world."
"Yes," he agreed, "and the very next time there is a new world to bediscovered I am going to do it."
The lights were already coming out along Broadway, this gloomy wetevening, and the homing throng on the pavements were sheltered by agleaming, tossing tide of umbrellas. Frank and Constance got out atMadison Square, at the Worth monument, and looked down toward the"Flat-iron"--a pillar of light, looming into the mist.
"Everywhere are achievements," said the girl. "That may not be a thingof beauty, but it is a great piece of engineering. They have nothinglike those buildings abroad--at least I have not seen them. Oh, this isa wonderful country, and it is those splendid engineers who have helpedto make it so. I know of one young man who is going to be an engineer.He was just a poor boy--so poor--and has worked his way. He would nevertake help from anybody. I shall see him this summer, when we go to themountains. He is to be not far away. Oh, you don't know how proud Ishall be of him, and how I want to see him and tell him so. Wouldn't yoube proud of a boy like that, a--a son or--a brother, for instance?"
She looked up at him expectantly--a dash of rain glistening on her cheekand in the little tangle of hair about her temples. She seemed a bitdisappointed that he was not more responsive.
"Wouldn't you honor him?" she demanded, "and love him, too--a boy whohad made his way alone?"
"Oh, why, y-yes, of course--only, you know, I hope he won't spend hislife building these things"--indicating with his head the great buildingwhich they were now passing, the gusts of wind tossing them and makingit impossible to keep the umbrella open.
"Oh, but he's to build railroads and great bridges--not houses at all."
"Um--well, that's better. By the way, I believe you go to theAdirondacks this summer."
"Yes, Father has a cottage--he calls it a camp--there. That is, he had.He says he supposes it's a wreck by this time. He hasn't seen it, youknow, for years."
"I suppose there is no law against my going to the Adirondacks, too, isthere?" he asked, rather meekly. "You know, I should like to see thatyoung man of yours. Maybe I might get some idea of what I ought to belike to make you proud of me. I haven't been there since I was a boy,but I remember I liked it then. No doubt I'd like it this year if--ifthat young man is there. I suppose I could find a place to stay not morethan twenty miles or so from your camp, so you could send word, youknow, any time you were getting proud of me."
She laughed--he thought a little nervously.
"Why, yes," she admitted, "there's a sort of hotel or lodge orsomething, not far away. I know that from Father. He said we might haveto stay there awhile until our camp is ready. Oh, but this talk of themountains makes me want to be there. I wish I were starting to-night!"
It seemed a curious place to discuss a summer's vacation--under a bigwind-tossed umbrella, along Broadway on a March evening. Perhaps theincongruity of it became more manifest with the girl's last remark, forher companion chuckled.
"Pretty disagreeable up there to-night," he objected; "besides, Ithought you liked all this a few minutes ago."
"Yes, oh, yes; I do, of course! It's all so big and bright andwonderful, though after all there is nothing like the woods, and thewind and rain in the hills."
What a strange creature she was, he thought. The world was so big andnew to her, she was confused and disturbed by the wonder of it and itspossibilities. She longed to have a part in it all. She would settledown presently and see things as they were--not as she thought theywere. He was not altogether happy over the thought of the young man whohad made his way and was to be a civil engineer. He had not heard ofthis friend before. Doubtless it was some one she had known inchildhood. He was willing that Constance should be proud of him; thatwas right and proper, but he hoped she would not be too proud or toopersonal in her interest. Especially if the young man was handsome. Shewas so likely to be impulsive, even extreme, where her sympathies wereconcerned. It was so difficult to know what she would do next.
Constance, meanwhile, had been doing some thinking and observing on herown account. Now she suddenly burst out: "Did you notice the headlineson the news-stand we just passed? The bill that the President has justvetoed? I don't know just what the bill is, but Father is so against it.He'll think the President is fine for vetoing it!" A moment later sheburst out eagerly, "Oh, why don't you go in for politics and dosomething great like that? A politician has so many opportunities. Iforgot all about politics."
He laughed outright.
"Try to forget it again," he urged. "Politicians have opportunities, asyou say; but some of the men who have improved what seemed the best oneshave gone to jail."
"But others had to send them there. You could be one of the noble ones!"
"Yes, of course, but you see I've just made up my mind to work my waythrough a school of technology and become a civil engineer, so you'll beproud of me--that is, after I've uncovered a few buried cities and foundthe North Pole. I couldn't do those things so well if I went intopolitical reform." Then they laughed again, inconsequently, and solight-hearted she seemed that Frank wondered if her more serious moodswere not for the most part make-believe, to tease him.
At Union Square they crossed by Seventeenth Street back to Fifth Avenue.When they had tacked their way northward for a dozen or more blocks, thecheer of an elaborate dining-room streamed out on the wet pavement.
"It's a good while till dinner," Frank observed. "If your stern parentswould not mind, I should suggest that we go in there and have, let mesee--something hot and not too filling--I think an omelette soufflewould be rather near it, don't you?"
"Wonderful!" she agreed, "and, do you know, Father said the otherday--of course, he's a gentle soul and too confiding--but I heard himsay that you were one person he was perfectly willing I should be with,anywhere. I don't see why, unless it is that you know the city so well."
"Mr. Deane's judgment is not to be lightly questioned," avowed the youngman, as they turned in the direction of the lights.
"Besides," she supplemented, "I'm so famished. I should never be able towait for dinner. I can smell that omelette now. And may I havepie--pumpkin pie--just one piece? You know we never had pie abroad, andmy whole childhood was measured by pumpkin pies. May I have just a smallpiece?"
Half an hour later, when they came out and again made their way towardthe Deane mansion, the wind had died and the rain had become a milddrizzle. As they neared the entrance of her home they noticed acrouching figure on the lower step. The light from across the streetshowed that it was a woman, dressed in shabby black, wearing a drabbledhat, decorated with a few miserable flowers. She hardly noticed them,and her face was heavy and expressionless. The girl shrank away and wasreluctant to enter.
"It's all right," he whispered to her. "That is the Island type. Shewants nothing but money. It's a chance for philanthropy of a very simplekind." He thrust a
bill into the poor creature's hand. The girl's eyecaught a glimpse of its denomination.
"Oh," she protested, "you should not give like that. I've heard it doesmuch more harm than good."
"I know," he assented. "My mother says so. But I've never heard that sheor anybody else has discovered a way really to help these people."
They stood watching the woman, who had muttered something doubtlessintended for thanks and was tottering slowly down the street. The girlheld fast to her companion's arm, and it seemed to him that she drew ashade closer as they mounted the steps.
"I suppose it's so, about doing them harm," she said, "and I don't thinkyou will ever lead as a philanthropist. Still, I'm glad you gave her themoney. I think I shall let you stay to dinner for that."