Chapter X: A Parable for Husbands 281 (5)

"Peter Malone," she burst out, "I came here to 'pologize, 'cause, without meanin' any harm, I thought as I'd hurt yer feelin's an' was owin' an explanation. I niver had anything to do with that groc'ry man nor any other man, an' ye know it as true as ye're standin' there. Instead o' believin' what I say like a gentleman would, ye insult me worse than anybody's iver done in the whole o' me life, an' I'll niver speak to ye again as long as I live." She choked down a sob, and with head erect turned and walked back to the house.

The two had had differences before, but never anything like this. Peter, his arms dropped limply at his side, stood watching her go, while the words she had spoken rang in his ears. Suddenly a lump rose in his throat, and he leaned his head against the horse's neck.

"Lord!" he whispered. "What have I done?"

The week which followed was one of outward indifference and inward misery to both. Annie mourned when alone, but under the eyes of the stables she flirted openly and without conscience with one of the painters who was opportunely engaged in re-staining the shingle roof of the Jasper house. Peter watched her with a heavy heart, and formed a brave determination never to think of her again, and ended by thinking of her every minute of the day. He made one awkward attempt at reconciliation which was spurned, whereupon he, too, plunged into a reckless flirtation with Mary, the chambermaid, who was fat, and every day of thirty-five. As neither Peter nor Annie had any means of knowing how wretched this treatment was making the other, they got very little comfort from it.

Annie sat at the kitchen table polishing silver with a sober face. It was six days since the grocery man's historic visit, and the war clouds showed no sign of lifting. There was a houseful of company at Willowbrook, and the work was mercifully distracting. Mary, this morning, had hung a long row of blankets and curtains on the line to air, for the sole purpose, Annie knew, of being near the stables. Peter was visible through the open window, greasing harness in the carriage-house doorway, and exchanging jocular remarks with Mary. Annie's eyes were out of doors oftener than upon her work. Nora, who was sitting on the back veranda shelling peas, remarked on Peter's newly awakened interest in the chambermaid, but as Annie did not answer, she very wisely changed the subject.

"I guess that Mr. Lane what's visitin' here has got a heap o' money," she called in tentatively.

"I guess he has," Annie assented indifferently.

"He seems to be pretty taken up with Miss Ethel. That was an awful becomin' pink dress she had on last night. Mrs. Carter would be pleased all right."

Annie received this remark in silence, but Nora was not to be discouraged. She felt that this new freak of taciturnity on Annie's part was defrauding her of her rights. A maid whose duties call her to the front part of the house is in a position to supply more accurate gossip than it is given a cook to know, and it is her business to supply it.

"Mr. Harry would feel awful, havin' growed up with her like," Nora continued. "He's a sight the best lookin' o' the two, and I'm thinkin' Miss Ethel knows it. It ud be convenient, too, havin' the places joined. The Jaspers has got money enough, an' him the only son. I guess they wouldn't starve if she did marry him. I've always noticed 'tis the people who has the most money as needs the most. I don't think much o' that Mr. Lane," she added.

Annie suddenly woke up.

"I don't neither. 'Tis too fresh he is."

"That's what I'm thinkin' meself," said Nora, cordially. "An' I guess so does Mr. Harry. I'm after observin' that he hasn't been around much since Mr. Lane's been here."

Annie's mind had wandered again. Her own affairs were requiring so much attention lately that Miss Ethel's were no longer a source of interest. Out in the stable Peter was proclaiming, in tones calculated to reach the kitchen, "There's only one girl in this world for me." Annie's lip quivered slightly as she heard him; a week before she had laughed at the same song, but as affairs stood now, it was insulting.

The peas finished, Nora gathered the yellow bowl under her arm and returned to the kitchen, where she concentrated her attention upon Annie and the silver.

"I'm thinkin' ye must be in love!" she declared. "Ye've cleaned that same spoon three times while I've been watchin', an' ye didn't count the plates right last night for dinner, an' ye forgot to give 'em any butter for breakfast."

Annie blushed guiltily at this damning array of evidence, and then she laughed. "If it's in love I am whiniver I forget things, then I must a-been in love since I was out o' the cradle."

"An' there's him as would be in love with you, if ye'd only act dacent to him--and I'm not meanin' the painter."

Annie chose to overlook this remark, and Nora's sociability was suppressed by the entrance of Mrs. Carter.

"We have decided to have a picnic supper at the beach to-night, Nora," she said. "You will not have to get dinner for anyone but Mr. Carter."

"Very well, ma'am."

"I am sorry that it happens on your afternoon out, Annie," she added, turning to the maid, "but I shall need you at the picnic to help about serving."

"Certainly, ma'am," said Annie. "I don't care about goin' out anyway."

"We shall start early in the afternoon, but I want you to wait and help Nora with the sandwiches, and then Peter can drive you out about six o'clock in the dog-cart."

Annie's face clouded precipitously.

"Please, ma'am," she stammered, "I think--that is, if ye please----" she hesitated and looked about desperately. "I'm afraid if ye're after wantin' coffee, I can't make it right. I'm niver sure o' me coffee two times runnin', and I should hate to be spoilin' it when there's company. If ye could take Nora instead o' me, ma'am, I could just be gettin' the lovely dinner for Mr. Carter when he comes."

"Why, Annie," she remonstrated, "you've always made excellent coffee before, and Nora doesn't wait on the table. Is it because you want to go out this afternoon? I am sorry, but you will have to wait until Miss Ethel's guests have gone."

"No, ma'am," said Annie, hastily, "I'm not wantin' the afternoon, an' it's willin' I am to help Miss Ethel, only--only--will you tell Peter, ma'am, about the cart?" she finished lamely, "'cause if I tell him he's likely to be late."

Mrs. Carter passed out of the kitchen door and crossed the lawn toward the stables, casting meanwhile a sharp eye about the premises to be sure that all was as it should be. Mary was shaking blankets with an air of deep absorption; Peter was industriously cleaning the already clean harness, and Joe could be heard inside officiously telling Billy to grease the other wheel and be quick about it. Unless Mrs. Carter approached very quietly indeed, she always found her servants oblivious to everything but their several duties. As she drew near the doorway, Peter rose from the harness and respectfully touched his cap with a very dirty hand, while the coachman, with a final order over his shoulder to a brow-beaten stable-boy, came forward hastily, and stood at attention.

"Joe, we are going to have a picnic at the beach this afternoon, and I want you to have the horses ready at three o'clock. Miss Ethel, Mr. Lane, and Master Bobby will ride, and you will drive the rest of us in the waggonette."

"Very well, ma'am," said Joe.

"And Peter," she added, turning to the groom, "I want you to bring out the supper with Trixy and the dog-cart at five o'clock."

"All right, ma'am," said Peter, saluting.

"Be sure to be on time," she warned. "Stop at the kitchen for Annie and the hampers promptly at five."

Peter's face suddenly darkened. He drew his mouth into a straight line, and looked sullenly down at the harness. "Beggin' yer pardon, ma'am," he mumbled, "I don't think--that is----" He scowled defiance at Joe, who grinned back appreciatively. "If it's just the same to ye, ma'am, I'd like to drive the waggonette an' let Joe fetch the lunch. If I'm to be coachman, ma'am, I'd sort o' like to get used to me dooties before he goes."

Mrs. Carter was frankly puzzled; she could not imagine what had suddenly got into her servants this morning. A lady who has a grown daughter, of some attractions and many admirers, to chaperone, cannot be expected to keep _au courant_ of her servants' love affairs.

"You have had a month in which to get used to your duties while Joe was in the hospital; that is sufficient for the present. Joe will drive the waggonette and you will follow with the supper--I wish you to help Tom put new netting in the screen-doors this afternoon."

Her tone precluded argument. As soon as she was out of hearing, Joe remarked softly, "Now, if she'd only said Mary instead of Annie I 'spose----"

"Aw, let up," Peter growled, and he fell to rubbing in the grease with unnecessary vehemence. His misunderstanding with Annie was a subject he would stand no fooling about, even from his chief.

At five o'clock, Peter, in a spotless top-hat and shining boots, looking as stiff as if he were clothed in steel armour, drew up before the kitchen door and piled the hampers and pails he found on the back veranda onto the seat beside him. He climbed to the box again with an air of finality, and gathering his reins together made a feint of starting.

"Peter!" Nora called from the kitchen window. "Where is it ye're goin'? Wait for Annie."

"Annie?" Peter looked as if he had never heard the name before.

"Yes, Annie. Did ye think ye was to cook the supper yerself?"

"I didn't think nothin'," said Peter. "Me orders was to stop for the lunch at five o'clock, an' I done it. If she wants to come along she'll have to sit on the back seat. I ain't a goin' to change these baskets again."

Annie appeared in the doorway in time to hear this ungracious speech; she clambered up to the somewhat uncomfortable footman's seat in silence, and they drove off back to back, as stiff as twin ramrods.

The cart rolled along over the smooth roads, past country clubs and summer cottages, and the only sign either of the two gave of being alive was an occasional vicious crack of the whip from Peter when patient little Trixy showed signs of wishing to take a quieter pace. At such times Annie would instinctively stretch out a deterring hand and form her mouth as if to say, "Please, Pete, don't whip her; she's doin' her best," and then suddenly remembering that formidable vow, would straighten up again and stare ahead with flushed cheeks.

The beach was five miles away, and there is an element of ludicrousness in the spectacle of two people in one small dog-cart riding five miles without speaking. Annie's sense of humour was keen; it struggled hard with her sense of wrong. She was never an Indian to cherish vengeance; her anger could be fierce at the moment, but it rarely lasted. And Peter was sorry for what he had said, she reminded herself; he had already tried to make up. By the end of the second mile two dimples appeared in her cheeks. At the third mile she shut her mouth tight to keep a laugh from escaping. At the fourth mile she spoke.

"Say, Pete, why don't ye talk to me? Are ye mad?"

Peter had been gazing at Trixy's ears with an air of deep preoccupation, and he came back to the present with a start of surprise, apparently amazed at finding that he had a companion in the cart.

"Ma'am?" he said.

Annie glanced around at his uncompromising back.

"Why don't ye say somethin'?" she repeated more faintly.

"I ain't got nothin' to say."

Annie's dimples gave way to an angry flush. Never, never, never again would she say a thing to him as long as she lived. The remainder of the drive was passed in a tumultuous silence. Peter, with grim mouth, kept his unseeing eyes on the road in front, and Annie, with burning cheeks, stared behind at the cloud of dust.

When the cart arrived among the straggling cedar trees which bordered the beach, they found drawn up beside the Carter horses, Mr. Harry's hunter and a strange drag which betokened impromptu guests. Annie had barely time to wonder if the plates would go around and if there would be salad enough, when the cart was welcomed with joyful shouts by a crowd of hungry picnickers. She caught a glimpse on the edge of the group of Miss Ethel, debonair and smiling, in another new dress, with Mr. Lane scowling on one side of her and Mr. Harry on the other. Ordinarily, she would have taken a lively interest in such a situation, and would have had an appreciative fellow-feeling for Miss Ethel; but she saw it now with an unhappy sense that the blessings of this world in the shape of dresses and men are unevenly distributed.

Annie usually accepted the pranks of the young ladies and gentlemen in good part, no matter how much extra trouble they caused; but to-day as she caught a plundering hand on one of the hampers, she called out sharply:

"Master Bobby, you let that cake alone! Them olives are for supper."

A general laugh greeted this outburst, and she turned away and began unpacking dishes with a bitter feeling of rebellion. Mrs. Carter bustled up, and having driven off the marauders, briskly took command.

"Now, Peter, as soon as you have hitched Trixy, come back and help about the supper. Annie will tell you what to do."

Annie cheered up slightly at this, and for the moment waived the letter of her vow. As Peter reluctantly reappeared, she ordered: "Get a pile o' drift wood and fix a place for the fire. Them are too big," she commented, as he returned with an armful of sticks. "Get some little pieces and be quick about it; you're too slow."

Peter looked mutinous, but the eyes of Mrs. Carter were upon him, and he obeyed.

"Now, take those two pails and go to the farm-house for water," Annie ordered.

When he returned with the two heavy pails, cross and splashed, she fished out a bug or two with an air of dissatisfaction, and told him to build the fire. Peter built the fire, and, at Annie's suggestion, held the coffee-pot to keep it steady. He burnt his hands, and swore softly under his breath, and Annie laughed. Mrs. Carter, having started preparations, suddenly recalled her duties as hostess and hurried off again, leaving Annie to superintend the remainder alone.

"Here, Peter," said Annie, "I want ye to open these cans o' sardines."

Peter looked after the retreating figure of Mrs. Carter. She was well out of hearing; he took from his pocket a cigarette and leisurely regarded it.

"I want these cans opened," Annie repeated more sharply.

Peter lighted his cigarette.

"I'll tell Mrs. Carter if ye don't."

Peter threw himself down on the grass, and blowing a ring of smoke, looked dreamily off toward the ocean.

Mrs. Carter showed no signs of coming back, and Annie saw that her brief dominion was over. She picked up the can-opener and jabbed it viciously into the tin. It slipped and cut an ugly gash in her finger. She uttered a little cry of pain, and turned pale at sight of the blood, and Peter laughed. She turned her back to keep him from seeing the tears of anger that filled her eyes, and for the third time she solemnly swore never, never, _never_ to speak to him again.

The two served the supper with the same grim silence behind the scenes that they exhibited before the guests. When it was over, instead of eating with Joe and Peter, Annie commenced gathering up the dishes and repacking them in the hampers ready for departure. The two men laughed and joked between themselves, without taking any notice of her absence, and Annie angrily told herself that she wouldn't speak to Joe any more, either. Just as she had everything packed and was comforting herself with the thought that she would soon be back home, and the miserable day would be ended, Mrs. Carter reappeared.

"Your coffee was excellent, Annie," she said, pleasantly, "and you and Peter served very nicely indeed. And now, instead of going home, I should like to have you wait and make some lemonade to be served later in the evening. It will be a beautiful moonlight night, and you and Peter can stay and enjoy yourselves."

"Very well, ma'am," said Annie, dully.

Peter, at this news, lighted another cigarette and strolled off with Joe, while Annie, who was growing apathetic under a culmination of troubles, busied herself in making the lemonade, and then sat down by her baskets to wait. She could see through the gathering dusk the merry crowd upon the beach, as they scattered about gathering driftwood for a fire. She heard every now and then, above the sound of the waves, a gay shout of laughter, and, nearer at hand, the restless stamping of the horses. She turned her back to the beach half pettishly, and sat watching Mr. Harry's sorrel as he nervously tossed his head and switched his tail, trying to keep off the sand flies. From that she fell to wondering how Mr. Harry happened to be there, and what Mr. Lane thought about it, and if there would be a fight. There probably would not, she reflected, with some regret, for gentlemen did not always fight when they should. (She had heard through the butcher's boy the story of Peter's prowess, and the knowledge had given some slight comfort.) Her reflections were suddenly interrupted by the sound of steps crashing toward her through the underbrush, and she looked up with a fast-beating heart. Her first thought was that it was Peter coming to make up, and she resolutely stiffened herself to withstand him, but a second glance showed her that it was Mr. Lane.

"Where's Joe?" he demanded.

"I don't know, Mr. Lane."

"Where's Peter, then?"

"I don't know. The two o' them hasn't been here since supper."

"Well, damn it! I've got to find some one." Mr. Lane was evidently excited. "See here, Annie," he said, "you're a good girl. Just give a message to Mrs. Carter from me, will you, please? Tell her a boy rode out on a bicycle with a telegram calling me back to New York immediately, and I had to ride back to the house without finding her in order to catch the ten-o'clock train. Don't say anything to Miss Ethel, and here's something to buy a new dress. Good-bye."

"Thank you, sir. Good-bye."

He hastily rebuckled his horse's bridle, led him into the lane out of sight of the beach, and mounted and galloped off. Annie looked after him with wide eyes; his bearing was not very jaunty; she wondered if Mr. Harry had whipped him. It did not seem likely, for Mr. Lane was the larger of the two; but for the matter of that, she reflected, so was the grocer's man larger than Peter. She did not understand it, but she slipped the bill into her pocket with a shrug of her shoulders. She could afford to be philosophic over other people's troubles.

It was growing dark in among the trees and she was beginning to feel very lonely. A big red moon was rising over the water, and a bright fire was crackling on the beach. The sound of singing was mingled with the beating of the surf. Annie wandered out from the shadow of the trees and strolled up the beach away from the camp-fire and the singers. Presently she dropped down in the shadow of a sand dune and sat with her chin in her hands pensively watching the black silhouettes against the fire. By and by she saw two figures strolling along the beach in her direction. She recognized them as Miss Ethel and Mr. Harry, and she crouched down behind the dune until they passed. She felt lonelier than ever as she watched them disappear, and the first thing she knew, she had buried her head in her arms and was crying to herself--but not very hard, for she was mindful of the ride home, and she did not wish to make her eyes red. Not for the world would she have let Peter know that she felt unhappy.

Suddenly into the midst of her misery came the sound of scrunching sand and the smell of cigarette smoke. Then, without looking up, she felt that some one was standing over her and that that some one was Peter. She held her breath and waited like a little ostrich, with her head burrowed into the sand.

Peter it was, and a mighty struggle was going on within his breast, but love is stronger than pride, and his Irish heart conquered in the end.

He bent over and touched her shoulder lightly.

"Annie!" he whispered.

She held her breath and kept her face hidden.

He dropped on his knee in the sand beside her. "Annie, darlin', don't be cryin'. Tell me what's the trouble." He forcibly transferred her head from the sand bank to his shoulder, and her tears trickled down his neck. "Is it yer finger that's hurtin' ye?"

She raised a tear-stained face with a quick smile quivering through at this purely masculine suggestion.

"It's not me finger; it's me feelin's," she breathed into his ear. Peter tightened his arms around her. "But they're not hurtin' any more," she added with a little laugh.

"An' this time we'll be friends f'r always?"

She nodded.

"Gee!" he whispered. "I've been spendin' the week in hell thinkin' ye didn't care nothin' for me."

"So uv I," said Annie.

As they sat watching the rippling path of moonlight on the water, from far down the beach they could hear the voices singing, "It's the spring time of life and the world is all before us." Annie laughed happily as she listened.

"I was wishin' a while ago that I was Miss Ethel 'cause she has everything she wants, but I don't wish it any more. She hasn't got you, Petey."

"And I'm thinkin' she isn't wantin' me," said Peter, with his eyes on the beach above them, where Miss Ethel and Mr. Harry were coming toward them hand in hand. The two stopped suddenly as they caught sight of Annie and Peter and hastily dropped each others' hands. Then Miss Ethel ran forward with a conscious little laugh.

"Annie, you shall be the first to congratulate me--but it's a secret; you mustn't tell a soul."

Annie looked back with shining eyes. "I'm engaged, too," she whispered.

"You dear!" said Miss Ethel, and she put her arm around her and kissed her.

Peter and Mr. Harry stood a moment eyeing each other awkwardly, then they reached out across the gulf that separated them and shook hands.

X

A PARABLE FOR HUSBANDS

Blue Gipsy's filly had broken two pairs of shafts, kicked a hole through a dash-board, and endeavoured to take a fence carriage and all, in a fixed determination not to become a harness-horse. It was evident that she had chosen her career and meant to stick to it.

"Break her to the shafts if you have to half kill her," Mr. Harry had said, but there were some things that Mr. Harry did not understand so well as Peter.

"Where's the use in spoilin' a good jumper for the sake o' makin' a poor drivin' horse?" Peter had asked the trainer, and he had added that the master was talking through his hat.

Peter had already explained the matter to Mr. Harry, but Mr. Harry was very much like the filly; when he had made up his mind he did not like to change. Peter decided to talk it over once more, however, before he risked another groom. The first groom had dislocated his shoulder, and he refused to have any further intercourse with Blue Gypsy's filly.

Poor Peter felt himself growing old under the weight of his responsibilities. Three years before he had been a care-free groom at Willowbrook; now, since Miss Ethel had married Mr. Harry, he was coachman at Jasper Place, with seven horses and three men under him. Occasionally he gazed rather wistfully across the meadow to where the Willowbrook stables showed a red blur through the gray-green trees. He had served there eleven years as stable-boy and groom, and though he had more than once tasted the end of a strap under Joe's vigorous dominion, it had been a happily irresponsible life. Not that he wished the old time back, for that would mean that there would be no Annie waiting supper for him at night in the coachman's cottage, but he did wish sometimes that Mr. Harry had a little more common sense about managing horses. Blue Gypsy's filly trotting peaceably between shafts! It was in her blood to jump, and jump she would; you might as well train a bull pup to grow up a Japanese poodle and sleep on a satin cushion.

Peter, pondering the matter, strolled over to the kitchen and inquired of Ellen where Mr. Harry was. Mr. Harry was in the library, she said, and Peter could go right through.

The carpet was soft, and he made no noise. He did not mean to listen, but he had almost reached the library door before he realized and then he stood still, partly because he was dazed, and partly because he was interested.

He did not know what had gone before, but the first thing he heard was Miss Ethel's voice, and though he could not see her, he knew from the tone what she looked like, with her head thrown back and her chin up and her eyes flashing.

"I am the best judge of my own actions," she said, "and I shall receive whom I please. You always put the wrong interpretation on everything I do, and I am tired of your interfering. If you would go away and leave me alone it would be best for us both--I feel sometimes as though I never wanted to see you again."

Then a long silence, and finally the cold, repressed tones of her husband asked: "Do you mean that?"

She did not answer, except by a long indrawn sob of anger. Peter had heard that sound before, when she was a child, and he knew how it ought to be dealt with; but Mr. Harry did not; he was far too polite.

After another silence he said quietly: "If I go, I go to stay--a long time."

"Stay forever, if you like."

Peter turned and tiptoed out, feeling unhappy and ashamed, as he had felt that other time when he had overheard. He went back to the stables, and sitting down with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, he pondered the situation. If he were Mr. Harry for just ten minutes, he told himself fiercely, he would soon settle things; but Mr. Harry did not understand. When it came to managing horses he was too rough, as if they had no sense; and when it came to managing women, he was too easy, as if they were all sense. Peter sighed miserably. His heart ached for them both: for Miss Ethel, because he knew that she did not mean what she said, and would later be sorry; for Mr. Harry, because he knew that he did mean what he said--terribly and earnestly. Neither understood the other, and it was all such a muddle when just a little common sense would have made everything happy. Then he shrugged his shoulders and told himself that it was none of his business; that he guessed they could make up their quarrels without help from him. And he fell to scolding the stable-boy for mixing up the harness.

In about half an hour, Oscar, the valet, came running out to the stables looking pleased and excited, with an order to get the runabout ready immediately to go to the station. Oscar was evidently bursting with news, but Peter pretended not to be interested, and kept on with his work without looking up.

"The master's going in to New York and I follow to-night with his things, and to-morrow we sail for England! Maybe we'll go from there on a hunting trip to India--I'm to pack the guns. There's been trouble," he added significantly. "Mrs. Jasper's in her room with the door banged shut, and the master is pretty quiet and white-like about the gills."

"Shut up an' mind yer own business," Peter snapped, and he led out the horses and began putting on the harness with hands that trembled.

As he drew up at the stepping-stone, Mr. Harry jumped in. "Well, Peter," he said, in a voice which was meant to be cheerful, but was a very poor imitation, "we must drive fast if we're to make the four-thirty train."

"Yes, sir," said Peter, briskly clicking to the horses, and for once he thanked his stars that the station was four miles away. A great resolve had been growing in his mind, and it required some time and a good deal of courage to carry it out. He glanced sideways at the grim, pale face beside him, and cleared his throat uneasily.

"Beggin' yer pardon," he began, "I was at the library door to ask about the filly, an' without meanin' to, I heard why you was goin' away."

A quick flush spread over Mr. Harry's face, and he glanced angrily at his coachman.

"The devil!" he muttered.

"Yes, sir," said Peter. "I suppose ye'll be dischargin' me, Mr. Harry, for speakin', but I feel it's me dooty, and I can't keep quiet. Beggin' yer pardon, sir, I've knowed Miss Ethel longer than you have. I was servin' at Willowbrook all the time that ye was in boardin' school an' college. Her hair was hangin' down her back an' she was drivin' a pony cart when I first come. I watched her grow and I know her ways--there was times, sir, when she was most uncommon troublesome. She's the kind of a woman as needs managin', and if ye'll excuse me for sayin' so, it takes a man to do it. Ye're too quiet an' gentleman-like, Mr. Harry. Though I guess she likes to have ye act like a gentleman, when ye can't do both she'd rather have ye act like a man. If I was her husband----"

"You forget yourself, Peter!"

"Yes, sir. Beg yer pardon, sir, but as I was sayin', if I was her husband, I'd let her see who was master pretty quick, an' she'd like me the better. And if she ever told me she would be glad for me to go away an' never come back, I'd look at her black like with me arms folded, and I'd say: 'Ye would, would ye? In that case I'll stay right here an' niver go away.' An' then she'd be so mad she'd put her head down on the back o' the chair an' cry, deep like, the way she always did when she couldn't have what she wanted, an' I'd wait with a frown on me brow, an' when she got through she'd be all over it, an' would ask me pardon sorrowful like; an' I'd wait a while an' let it soak in, an' then I'd forgive her."

Mr. Harry stared at Peter, too amazed to speak.

"Yes, sir," Peter resumed, "I've watched Miss Ethel grow up, and I knows her like her own mother, as ye might say. I've drove her to and from the town for thirteen years, and I've rode after her many miles on horseback, an' when she felt like it she would talk to me as chatty as if I weren't a groom. She was always that way with the servants; she took an interest in our troubles, an' we all liked her spite o' the fact that she was a bit over-rulin'."

Mr. Harry knit his brows and stared ahead without speaking, and Peter glanced at him uneasily and hesitated.

"There's another thing I'd like to tell ye, sir, though I'm not sure how ye'll take it."

"Don't hesitate on my account," murmured Mr. Harry, ironically. "Say anything you please, Peter."

"Well, sir, I guess ye may have forgotten, but I was the groom ye took with ye that time before ye was married when ye an' Miss Ethel went to see the old wreck."

Mr. Harry looked at Peter with a quick, haughty stare; but Peter was examining the end of his whip and did not see.

"An' ye left me an' the cart, sir, under the bank, if ye'll remember, an' ye didn't walk far enough away, an' ye spoke pretty loud, and I couldn't help hearin' ye."

"Damn your impertinence!" said Mr. Harry.

"Yes, sir," said Peter. "I never told no one, not even me wife, but I understood after that how things was goin'. An' when ye went away travellin' so sudden, I s'picioned ye wasn't feelin' very merry over the trip; an' I watched Miss Ethel, and I was sure she wasn't feelin' merry, for all she tried mighty hard to make people think she was. When they was lookin', sir, she laughed an' flirted most outrageous with them young men as used to be visitin' at Willowbrook, but I knew, sir, that she didn't care a snap of her finger for any o' them, for in between times she used to take long rides on the beach, with me followin' at a distance--at a very respectful distance; she wasn't noticin' my troubles then, she had too many of her own. When there weren't no one on the beach she'd leave me the horses an' walk off by herself, an' sit on a sand dune, an' put her chin in her hand an' stare at the water till the horses was that crazy with the sand flies I could scarcely hold 'em. An' sometimes she'd put her head down an' cry soft like, fit to break a man's heart, and I'd walk the horses off, with me hands just itchin'--beggin' yer pardon, sir, to get a holt o' you, for I knew that ye was the cause."

"You know a great deal too much," said Mr. Harry, dryly.

"A groom learns considerable without meanin' to, and it's lucky his masters is if he knows how to keep his mouth shut. As I was sayin', Mr. Harry, I knew all the time she was longin' for ye, but was too proud to let ye know. If ye'll allow the impertinence, sir, ye made a mistake in the way ye took her at her word. She loved ye too much not to be willin' to forgive ye for everything; and if ye'd only understood her an' handled her right, she wouldn't 'a' throwed ye over."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if ye'll excuse me speakin' allegorical like, as she's the kind of a woman as needs a sharp bit and a steady hand on the bridle, an' when she bolts a touch o' the lash--not too much, for she wouldn't stand it, but enough to let her see who's master. I've known some women an' many horses, sir, an' I've noticed as the blooded ones is alike in both. If ye 'll excuse me mentionin' it, Miss Ethel was badly broke, sir. She was given the rein when she needed the whip, but for all that, she's a thoroughbred, sir, an' that's the main thing."

Peter imperceptibly slowed his horses.

"If ye don't mind, Mr. Harry, I'd like to tell ye a little story. It happened six or seven years ago when ye was away at college, and if Miss Ethel is a bit unreasonable now, she was more unreasonable then. It was when the old master first bought Blue Gypsy--as was a devil if there ever was one. One afternoon Miss Ethel takes it into her head she wants to try the new mare, so she orders her out, with me to follow. What does she do but make straight for the beach, sir, an' gallop along on the hard sand close to the water-line. It was an awful windy day late in October, with the clouds hangin' low an' the waves dashin' high, and everything sort o' empty an' lonesome. Blue Gypsy wasn't used to the water, an' she was so scared she was 'most crazy, rearin' an' plungin' till ye would a swore she had a dozen legs--not much of a horse for a lady, but Miss Ethel could ride all right. She kept Blue Gypsy's head to the wind an' galloped four or five miles up the beach, with me poundin' along behind, hangin' on to me hat for dear life.

"'Twas ebb-tide, but time for the flood, and I was beginning to think we'd better go back, unless we wanted to plough through the loose shingle high up, which is mighty hard on a horse, sir. But when we come to the Neck, Miss Ethel rode straight on; I didn't like the looks of it much, but I didn't say nothin' for the Neck's never under water an' there weren't no danger. But what does she do when we comes to the end o' the Neck, but turn to ride across the inlet to the mainland, which ye can do easy enough at low tide, but never at high. The sand was already gettin' oozy, an' with the wind blowin' off the sea the tide was risin' fast. Ye know what it would 'a' meant, sir, if she'd gone out an' got caught. An' what with that unknown devil of a Blue Gypsy she was ridin', there was no tellin' when it would happen.

"'Miss Ethel,' I calls, sort o' commandin' like, for I was too excited for politeness, 'ye can't go across.'

"She turns around an' stares at me haughty, an' goes on.

"I gallops up an' says: 'The tide's a risin', Miss Ethel, an' the inlet isn't safe.'

"She looks me over cool an' says: 'It is perfectly safe. I am goin' to ride across; if you are afraid, Peter, you may go home.'

"With that she whips up an' starts off. I was after her in a minute, gallopin' up beside her, an' before she knew what I was doin' I reaches out me hand an' grabs hold o' the bridle an' turns Blue Gypsy's head. I didn't like to do it, for it seemed awful familiar, but with people as contrary as they is, sir, ye've got to be familiar sometimes, if ye're goin' to do any good in the world.

"Well, Mr. Harry, as ye can believe, she didn't like it, an' she calls out sharp and imperative for me to let go. But I hangs on an' begins to gallop, an' with that she raises her crop an' cuts me over the hand as hard as she can. It hurt considerable, but I held on an' didn't say nothin', an' she raised her arm to strike again. But just at that moment a wave broke almost at the horses' feet, an' Blue Gypsy reared, an' Miss Ethel, who wasn't expectin' it, almost lost her balance an' the crop dropped on the sand.

"'Peter,' she says, 'go back an' get me that crop.'

"But by that time I'd got the bit in me teeth, sir, an' I just laughs--ugly like--an' keeps holt o' the bridle an' gallops on. Well, sir, then she was 'most crazy, an' she tries to shake off me arm with her fist, but she might as well have tried to shake down a tree. I looks at her, an' smiles to meself impertinent, an' keeps on. An' she looks all around, desperate like, hopin' to see someone within call, but the beach was empty, an' there wasn't nothin' she could do, I bein' so much stronger."

"You brute!" said Mr. Harry.

"I was savin' her life," said Peter. "An' when she saw she couldn't do nothin' she kind o' sobbed down low to herself an' said, soft like: '_I'll discharge you, Peter, when we get home._'

"I touches me hat an' says as polite as ye please: 'Very well, miss, but we ain't home yet, miss, and I'm boss for the present.'

"With that a great big wave comes swash up against the horses' legs, an' lucky it is that I had a holt o' the bridle, for Blue Gypsy would 'a' thrown her sure. An' after I got her back on her four legs--Blue Gypsy, sir--an' we was goin' on again, Miss Ethel throws a look over her shoulder at the inlet which was all under water, an' then she looks down at me hand that had a great big red welt across it, an' she said so low I could scarce hear her over the waves:

"'You can take your hand away, Peter. I'll ride straight home.'

"I knew she meant it, but me hand was burnin' like fire, and I'd got me temper up, so I looks at her doubtin' like, as if I couldn't believe her, an' she turns red an' says, 'Can't ye trust me, Peter?' an' with that I touches me hat an' falls behind.

"An' when we got back, sir, and I got off at the porter-ker-cher to help her dismount, what does she do but take me big red hand in both o' hers, an' she looks at the scar, an' then she looks in me eyes, an' she says, like as ye hit straight from the shoulder, sir, 'Peter,' she says, 'I'm sorry I struck you. Will ye forgive me?' she says.

"An' I touches me hat an' says: 'Certainly, miss. Don't mention it, miss,' an' we was friends after that.

"An' that's the reason, Mr. Harry, I hate to see ye go off an'--beggin' yer pardon--make a fool o' yerself. For she loves ye true, sir, like as Annie loves me, an' I know, sir, if she took it hard before ye was married, it ud near kill her now. Ye mustn't mind what she says when she's angry, for she just thinks o' the worst things she can to hurt yer feelin's, but Lord! sir, she don't mean it no more'n a rabbit, an' if ye'll give her half a chance and don't act like an iceberg she'll want to make up. Me an' Annie, Mr. Harry, we pulls together lovely. I'm the boss in some things, an' she's the boss in others; I lets her think she can manage me, an' she lets me think I can manage her--and I can, sir. Sometimes we have little quarrels, but it's mostly for the joy o' makin' up, an' we're that happy, sir, that we wants to see everyone else happy."

The horses had slowed to a walk, but Mr. Harry did not notice it. A smile was beginning to struggle with the hard lines about his mouth.

"Well, Peter," he said, "you've preached quite a sermon. What would you advise?"

"That ye go back an' take a firm hold o' the bridle, sir, an' if she uses the whip, just hold on hard an' don't let on that it hurts."

Mr. Harry looked at Peter and the smile spread to his eyes. "And then when she drops it," he asked, "just laugh and ride on?"

Peter coughed a deprecatory cough.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Harry, I think if I was in your place I'd pick it up an' keep it meself. It might come in handy in case of emergencies."

Mr. Harry threw back his head in a quick, boyish laugh, and reaching over he took the lines and turned the horses' heads.

"Peter," he said, "you may be elemental, but I half suspect you're right."

* * * * *

_"The Books You Like to Read at the Price You Like to Pay"_

_There Are Two Sides to Everything_----

--including the wrapper which covers every Grosset & Dunlap book. When you feel in the mood for a good romance, refer to the carefully selected list of modern fiction comprising most of the successes by prominent writers of the day which is printed on the back of every Grosset & Dunlap book wrapper.

You will find more than five hundred titles to choose from--books for every mood and every taste and every pocket-book.

_Don't forget the other side, but in case the wrapper is lost, write to the publishers for a complete catalog._

_There is a Grosset & Dunlap Book for every mood and for every taste_

* * * * *

B. M. BOWER'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.

CHIP OF THE FLYING U. Wherein the love affairs of Chip and Della
Whitman are charmingly and humorously told.

THE HAPPY FAMILY. A lively and amusing story, dealing with the
adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys.

HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT. Describing a gay party of Easterners who
exchange a cottage at Newport for a Montana ranch-house.

THE RANGE DWELLERS. Spirited action, a range feud between two
families, and a Romeo and Juliet courtship make this a bright,
jolly story.

THE LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS. A vivid portrayal of the experience
of an Eastern author among the cowboys.

THE LONESOME TRAIL. A little branch of sage brush and the
recollection of a pair of large brown eyes upset "Weary" Davidson's
plans.

THE LONG SHADOW. A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the
free outdoor life of a mountain ranch. It is a fine love story.

GOOD INDIAN. A stirring romance of life on an Idaho ranch.

FLYING U RANCH. Another delightful story about Chip and his pals.

THE FLYING U'S LAST STAND. An amusing account of Chip and the
other boys opposing a party of school teachers.

THE UPHILL CLIMB. A story of a mountain ranch and of a man's hard
fight on the uphill road to manliness.

THE PHANTOM HERD. The title of a moving-picture staged in New
Mexico by the "Flying U" boys.

THE HERITAGE OF THE SIOUX. The "Flying U" boys stage a fake bank
robbery for film purposes which precedes a real one for lust of
gold.

THE GRINGOS. A story of love and adventure on a ranch in
California.

STARR OF THE DESERT. A New Mexico ranch story of mystery and
adventure.

THE LOOKOUT MAN. A Northern California story full of action,
excitement and love.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

* * * * *

ZANE GREY'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

THE MAN OF THE FOREST THE DESERT OF WHEAT THE U. P. TRAIL WILDFIRE THE BORDER LEGION THE RAINBOW TRAIL THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN THE LONE STAR RANGER DESERT GOLD BETTY ZANE

* * * * *

LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS

The life story of "Buffalo Bill" by his sister Helen Cody Wetmore, with Foreword and conclusion by Zane Grey.

ZANE GREY'S BOOKS FOR BOYS

KEN WARD IN THE JUNGLE THE YOUNG LION HUNTER THE YOUNG FORESTER THE YOUNG PITCHER THE SHORT STOP THE RED-HEADED OUTFIELD AND OTHER BASEBALL STORIES

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

* * * * *

JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD'S

STORIES OF ADVENTURE

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

THE RIVER'S END

A story of the Royal Mounted Police.

THE GOLDEN SNARE

Thrilling adventures in the Far Northland.

NOMADS OF THE NORTH

The story of a bear-cub and a dog.

KAZAN

The tale of a "quarter-strain wolf and three-quarters husky" torn between the call of the human and his wild mate.

BAREE, SON OF KAZAN

The story of the son of the blind Grey Wolf and the gallant part he played in the lives of a man and a woman.

THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM

The story of the King of Beaver Island, a Mormon colony, and his battle with Captain Plum.

THE DANGER TRAIL

A tale of love, Indian vengeance, and a mystery of the North.

THE HUNTED WOMAN

A tale of a great fight in the "valley of gold" for a woman.

THE FLOWER OF THE NORTH

The story of Fort o' God, where the wild flavor of the wilderness is blended with the courtly atmosphere of France.

THE GRIZZLY KING

The story of Thor, the big grizzly.

ISOBEL

A love story of the Far North.

THE WOLF HUNTERS

A thrilling tale of adventure in the Canadian wilderness.

THE GOLD HUNTERS

The story of adventure in the Hudson Bay wilds.

THE COURAGE OF MARGE O'DOONE

Filled with exciting incidents in the land of strong men and women.

BACK TO GOD'S COUNTRY

A thrilling story of the Far North. The great Photoplay was made from this book.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

* * * * *

EDGAR RICE BURROUGH'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

TARZAN THE UNTAMED

Tells of Tarzan's return to the life of the ape-man in his search for vengeance on those who took from him his wife and home.

JUNGLE TALES OF TARZAN

Records the many wonderful exploits by which Tarzan proves his right to ape kingship.

A PRINCESS OF MARS

Forty-three million miles from the earth--a succession of the weirdest and most astounding adventures in fiction. John Carter, American, finds himself on the planet Mars, battling for a beautiful woman, with the Green Men of Mars, terrible creatures fifteen feet high, mounted on horses like dragons.

THE GODS OF MARS

Continuing John Carter's adventures on the Planet Mars, in which he does battle against the ferocious "plant men," creatures whose mighty tails swished their victims to instant death, and defies Issus, the terrible Goddess of Death, whom all Mars worships and reveres.

THE WARLORD OF MARS

Old acquaintances, made in the two other stories, reappear, Tars Tarkas, Tardos Mors and others. There is a happy ending to the story in the union of the Warlord, the title conferred upon John Carter, with Dejah Thoris.

THUVIA, MAID OF MARS

The fourth volume of the series. The story centers around the adventures of Carthoris, the son of John Carter and Thuvia, daughter of a Martian Emperor.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

* * * * *

MYRTLE REED'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.

LAVENDER AND OLD LACE.

A charming story of a quaint corner of New England. The story centers round the coming of love to the young people on the staff of a newspaper--and is one of the sweetest and quaintest of old-fashioned love stories.

FLOWER OF THE DUSK.

A crippled daughter struggles to keep up the deception of riches for the comfort of a blind father. Through the aid of an heiress and her surgeon lover both father and daughter are cured.

MASTER OF THE VINEYARD.

A pathetic love story of a young girl, Rosemary. The teacher of the country school, who is also master of the vineyard, comes to know her through her desire for books. She is happy in his love till another woman comes into his life. But happiness comes to Rosemary at last.

OLD ROSE AND SILVER.

A love story,--sentimental and humorous,--with the plot subordinate to the character delineation of its quaint people and to the exquisite descriptions of picturesque spots.

A WEAVER OF DREAMS.

This story tells of the love-affairs of three young people, with an old-fashioned romance in the background.

A SPINNER IN THE SUN.

An old-fashioned love story of a veiled lady who lives in solitude. There is a mystery that throws over it the glamour of romance.

THE MASTER'S VIOLIN.

A love story in a musical atmosphere. An old German virtuoso consents to take for his pupil a youth who proves to have an aptitude for technique, but not the soul of an artist. But a girl comes into his life, and through his passionate love for her his soul awakes.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

* * * * *

NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY

WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

MAVERICKS

A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler" abounds. One of the sweetest love stories ever told.

A TEXAS RANGER

How a member of the border police saved the life of an innocent man, followed fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness.

WYOMING

In this vivid story the author brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor.

RIDGWAY OF MONTANA

The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and mining industries are the religion of the country.

BUCKY O'CONNOR