Chapter XII: Saint Phœbe

THE sun was shining pleasantly over Bluff Point, and the temperature of the water was absolutely neutral to the swimmers. It was glorious swimming, thought Richard. He was enjoying it and he knew that Jerry was equally happy. As they drew near the boat--Walter had seen them and had trimmed his sail to meet them--he lengthened his stroke. Instantly Jerry lengthened hers. The space between them had not changed a foot. He wondered if she could hold the new stroke, a slow but powerful overhand; but his wonder increased as she held it without effort. There was not a splash or an ungainly movement in her swing. When he slackened for fear of pushing her too hard, she imitated instantly. It was as if she had determined exactly how much distance should be between them.

Walter brought the little boat into the wind with such expertness that Geraldine had but to reach out her hand for the stern. There she waited triumphantly for Richard. She counted with satisfaction the fifteen long swings which represented the amount of her victory.

As he reached up beside her and caught the edge of the boat she waited for him to congratulate her. She was an exceptional swimmer, and he had just found it out. This time she would not blunder by speech.

But his eye was upon Walter. “Good work, old man!” he exulted. “You turned that boat about with the precision of a Dutch watchmaker. That’s what I call skill!”

Walter laughed, the excited laugh of a boy pleased with an earned compliment. It was his second laugh in Richard’s remembrance, the first genuinely hearty one.

Jerry clambered into the boat. Richard followed. Walter eased the mainsail and went on his course towards the dock.

“Bully good work!” Richard went on. “You’ve certainly got the number of this skiff, all right!”

The two swimmers had gone forward, where they lounged and rested in the full warmth of the sun. Walter sat by the tiller, one hand controlling the mainsheet, ridiculously proud.

“Thirsty?” Richard called back.

“Sure. And hungry, too. Puts an edge on you, this does!”

Hungry! That was a fine sign.

“Well,” Geraldine was forced to bring up the topic, “I beat you.”

“Oh,” he affected great surprise, “were you racing?”

“Good sport, you are,” she smiled ironically. “Own up; you tried to overtake me, and I wouldn’t let you. I saw you lengthen out and then let up. I’ve been waiting for this ever since you boasted that you could swim. I had lots more left, and in a spurt I can ‘crawl’ like an express train.”

“Knew she’d win,” Walter nodded proudly. “She’s beat all the men ’round here. That’s what scares ’em off. She always asks ’em to go swimmin’, an’ ’en she makes ’em look sick.... Can’t blame the fellows for scarin’ off.”

That was a long speech from Walter. Richard rested and reflected on it. This boy was no hopeless case. It was just a question of letting him lead a natural healthy life, he thought. But Geraldine, full of her victory, rejoiced that she had humbled the big man into silence. Was he wrinkling his face on account of the sun, or was it sullenness?

“You wanted to win,” he answered her thought quietly.

“Naturally. A woman likes to beat a man, occasionally. That’s the latest female sport.”

“Why should anyone want to win?” he asked.

“Pooh! Philosophy!” She would not let him take her victory up into the empyrean where it would disappear into insignificance. That was the way of these clever argumentative chaps. After they slap you in the face, they cry loftily, “Think of all the millions of years that are gone and are to come, and what matters a little slap!” The answer is to slap back, a little harder--twice, if you can get it in--and echo, “Aye! Mere dust on the wing of eternity!” He had tried to overhaul her; she knew he had tried; he gave up because she was the better swimmer. “Pooh! Philosophy!” she ejaculated. “Let’s be practical for once.”

“Philosophy is always practical; philosophy is simply trying to think straight, even against our best wishes. It is disinterested and terribly curious. So when I ask, ‘Why should anyone want to win?’ I am disinterested and tremendously curious. Do you really know?”

In her own case she knew exactly. The calmness of this man had begun to irritate; he was so sure of himself; he could not be disturbed. She wished to humble him, to drag him out of his secure serenity. Few men can stand a beating from a woman. She hoped to punish him a little by winning. All this she knew, but she said:

“Instinct, I suppose. I never inquire about instinct. Might as well ask why we eat; the answer is, because we’re hungry. Why are we hungry? Because we need food. Why do we need food? Instinct!”

“A philosopher come to judgment!” he laughed. “You reason exactly like a philosopher. The average man does not bring up at that answer; he says, ‘I am hungry because I am a wonderful creature, the exceptional thing in the universe--I have an appetite!’ Haven’t you noticed the pride people take in their appetites? When philosophy tells you it is a common instinct over which we have no control, it is very helpful and very practical. It saves us from a deal of comic pride.”

“You have no instinct to win, I suppose?” she taunted him.

“No,” he replied thoughtfully; “that’s why I am a failure.”

Some of her throbbing aggressiveness slipped away from her at this speech. She remembered the deck scene on the _Victoria_ when she had listened to Richard’s announcement of his occupation as “professional guest” helped out by occasionally acting as “assistant widow.”

“It would be much better for me,” he went on, “as the world judges values, at least--if I could want to win. But I can’t want to. You see, I am an individualist--I obey my own law. All the world is eager to win; I find that I am not. Fortunately for me there is plenty of chance for the fellow who doesn’t care about getting ahead of some other fellow. There is practically no competition. He has a kind of monopoly!”

“Everybody wants to win,” Walter contributed determinedly. “Racing, now--what’s the good of racing if nobody wanted to win?”

“One could enjoy the race, striving to the utmost, without wanting either to win or lose.”

“Can’t see it,” said Walter.

“The struggle is the thing--not the result. The result is with the gods, but no one can take from you the delight of contesting all your powers. Then there is a joy in giving up to others, an exquisite joy which few people seem to practise.... Yet Christ taught it.”

“Like Phœbe Norris,” suggested Walter.

“Ah, the saint!” Richard remembered.

“She’s a young woman,” Jerry explained, “only twenty-eight, yet she gave the ten best years of her life to an insane husband. He went out of his mind while they were half-engaged to be married. Phœbe insisted upon the ceremony. Talk about giving! Yet Phœbe is the cheerfullest red-head in Jerusalem township.”

“’Tain’t so red,” Walter objected.

“Oh, it’s a torch!” Jerry laughed.

“Well! Well!” Richard showed interest. “Saint Phœbe attracts me mightily.... I thought she was an old woman.”

“She ought to be, considering the sacrifice she has made of her life--but she isn’t; not by a jugful. Wait till you see her!”

“I don’t need to see her,” Richard stretched himself out more comfortably. “It is enough to know that you who know her know nothing about her. Sacrifice? Why, you talk of sacrifice like a Quaker paying a bill.... I wager that Phœbe Norris is no saint at all. She’s had the finest time of her young life, that’s all--doing the most selfish act in her character--giving up to others.”

Objections came from both ends of the boat, Walter’s suspiciously vehement.

“Listen, my children, and you shall hear true philosophy,” Richard broke in. “For some persons the only joy is having and holding; for a rare few the only joy is giving. Find out what a man wants, the givers say, and give it to him quickly. But first want nothing yourself--or want everything equally. If he covets your watch, give it to him; you can tell time by the sun and by the stars; or better still, do without knowing the time at all. ‘Give all thou hast to the poor,’ the poor devils who cry so loudly for the baubles and gewgaws.”

Sailing before the wind is like not sailing at all. Wind and ship are in perfect balance. Except for the swish of water flowing by, the sensation is of standing still. Suddenly the silence was broken by a rapid flapping of the sheet. Walter swung the tiller over and pushed the boom out with his foot and held it there steadily.

“What’s up?” Richard inquired languidly. He was enjoying the rest and the sun and openly drank in the sensation of living.

“Dead,” explained Walter, referring to the abrupt failure of the wind.

“Dead? Good!” murmured Richard, stretching himself full length. “O Death, where is thy sting?”

The wind had not died out completely; there was just enough breeze short of a complete calm to pilot the boat by inches and enable Walter to tack squarely off towards the farther shore.

“Hadn’t we better get in?” Jerry inquired.

“Sure!” grinned Walter; “wind over there.”

Richard shaded his eyes.

“How do you know?” he asked. The unrippled water seemed everywhere.

“Always is, with clouds going that way,” he pointed overhead.

“But there’s no sign on the surface. Seems just as dead as here.”

“You’ll see.”

In a few moments wind struck the top of the sail. A fair breeze seemed to be floating along four to five feet above the water. Soon Walter came about and tacked straight for the dock. A good sailful was his all the way.

“Magic!” Richard cried as they sped along through the glassy water.

“Wind-pocket,” grunted Walter. “Comes off the hill, I guess. This Lake’s full of them. Got to know ’em if you want to do any racin’.”

Was this a good time to tell Walter about his mother’s change of mind on the subject of the ownership of a “Class A” boat? It seemed so. Richard was turning over in his mind the proper phrase to use--one had to be cautious, for the very mention of the word mother might easily drive all that eagerness out of the boy’s face--when Jerry harked back.

“We’re always having half-conversations,” she said. “I like to finish things; get ’em over and off your mind.”

“Get it off, then.”

“You think you let me win?”

“Can’t tell,” he drawled lazily; “haven’t tried to race you yet.”

“When will you? This afternoon?”

“Let’s wait.”

“I like to get things done.”

“Better put it off,” he advised, “you’ve a better chance if you get into trim. You can’t jump at these long swims without tuning up for them. You’ve been out of the water for several months----”

“I swam in the Seine three weeks ago.”

“You mean in the shore baths?”

“No; in the river.”

“In the July races?”

“Yes.”

“Glory be to Peter! Did you win?”

“Fifth place--out of forty-two entrants.”

She exhibited the edge of her bathing suit, whereon was sewn a tiny silk badge showing that Jerry had entered as a member of the “Club du Siècle” and that she had achieved fifth place.

“Did mother----” he began.

“Not till it was all over; I had hard enough trouble bribing my way into that ‘Club du Siècle.’”

“Jove!” he exclaimed; “you unfold beautifully! You don’t show yourself all at once. It’s just like a magnificent strange flower coming out of the bud. I must make a new set of judgments on you every little while.”

He ignored Walter, although the little boat threw them close together. Jerry gave a significant glance towards the boy, but Richard would not have it.

“He’s all right” he laughed aloud. “Walter is on; he might as well hear everything.”

Walter leered at them knowingly.

“It makes my flesh creep,” said Jerry. Walter’s simple brain had no translation of that speech, but Richard understood. Walter’s dark statement of the morning that these two before him were merely clandestine philanderers had irritated the woman almost into blows; and even yet, when she understood that this mentally ill-balanced brother of hers had to be humoured, the low interpretation put upon the very wholesome and natural relationship between Jerry and Richard was nauseating. It was the knowing leer that made her flesh creep; and, of course, Richard understood.

“It is necessary, I fear,” said he appealingly.

“I understand. Go on; I’ll try to get used to it.... You were saying something sweetly pretty about me which I shouldn’t want to miss for anything. You were comparing me to a budding sunflower, I think.”

“A sunflower, yes; provided one had never seen a sunflower,” he explained. “In a flash I understand something about you which has puzzled me heretofore. You know, I began by analyzing you--on the hill at Naples.”

“Yes; you told me I had the deportment of an octogenarian and the language of an infant.”

“Precisely,” he grinned; “since which time you have improved wonderfully. But that’s not my point just now. Now I understand why you flared up so when I suggested that all women eventually made eyes at me.”

“Oh, dear!” she affected boredom; “why are you always bringing up that topic?”

It was the first time he had brought it up; in fact he had been all morning diplomatically diverting the lady from just that topic. But he made no remark about this characteristic feminine disavowal of facts.

“Because I have just discovered why you were angry----”

“I was angry, angry enough to strike you, because without waiting to find out what sort of a woman I was you hinted that before long I’d be---- Well, sir”--a little flash of her old anger came back--“I am not the sort to make eyes at anyone or write anyone letters of confession!”

“I believe you!” he agreed, so firmly that she knew he was speaking from conviction. “And that’s why you interest me.”

He didn’t know why at first, he said. Deep within the “subliminal” the reason of his interest was hidden. She had giggled and spluttered like an over-grown child, he told her. (Thank you, she said.) Kid-women he had never taken any stock in--those that gabbled without thinking or whined like spoiled babies, or substituted flippancy for conversation. Indeed, at the very start on the starboard rail of the _Victoria_ she had exhibited all the female qualities that ordinarily sent him flying; but he was interested from the beginning. Always he trusts his interests, not his reason; reason is only useful in analyzing what is already done; his “interest” led him to ignore the personality number one which she presented at the starboard rail. Result: Keuka and personalities numbers two, three, four and five!

She listened contentedly. There is no glow warmer than that which comes on being understood!

“Of _course_ you wouldn’t go soft like all the others!” he announced. “I treated you like a man, and you responded like a man. You have the point of view of a man and the physique of a man. The arms fool one,” he looked critically at her rounded arms. “One forgets that muscles don’t show on a woman. It’s the feminine layer of fat that all the magazine doctors have been talking about lately; but the muscles are there. That silk medal tells me that, even if I didn’t know,” he made a wry face, “from experience.”

By this time all her resentment had vanished, had oozed beautifully away. She had lost even her desire to beat him in a swimming match. While Walter was making the dock, she confessed some of her athletic abilities, one of which was long-distance walking. They would swim across the Lake, take early morning canters. He chimed in like an old comrade. They would do stunts together! Meanwhile, he reminded her, they had responsibilities with Walter.

That youth brought his little boat around, fished up the mooring float and dropped his sail almost in the same act. Then he clambered into the tender and got ready to row ashore. A queer impish look was fluttering over his face; his mind seemed on the point of expressing something. Once or twice he opened his mouth, but thought better of it and pulled a stroke or two. Encouraged by the slight distance, he rested on his oars.

“You two can swim in if you want to,” he announced; “or you can go below!” When one considers that George Alexander’s cat-boat had not so much as a cabin on it, this was a stupendous jest from Walter. The two swimmers were appalled at the unexpectedness of the witticism, but they were bowled over by the remark that followed. “Do what yuh please, you two. That ‘cat’ won’t squeal!”

Then he pulled sturdily away.

“It’s a joke!” cried Richard.

“I bet it is!” echoed Jerry.

“He’s alive! Any man who can make a jest is still alive!” he exulted.

“I don’t know,” Jerry shook her head. “It sounded uncanny to me. That’s the first sign of humour I’ve seen from Walter for a ‘coon’s age.’ Even when he’s drunk he’s surly. I’m afraid it means the breaking up of what mind he has.”

“Don’t you think he is improving?” he asked.

“Wonderfully. He talked two or three consecutive sentences out there on the Lake. It gave me quite a shock to see him so garrulous. And then, this joke----”

“Don’t you think this would be a good time to tell him about his boat?”

“Perhaps.”

“You don’t seem much interested.”

“I hate to discourage you,” she shook her head; “but Walter is no good.”

“Oh, don’t say that.”

“He’s better now, I’ll admit. But you should have seen him when he has been drinking for a week. Ugh! The very smell of him is piggish and loathsome! He is twenty-two years old, and he hasn’t done a stroke of work all his life.”

“Neither have I, and I am older by a decade.”

“I don’t think you always tell the truth about yourself.” Her quiet tone searched him. She seemed suddenly to peer into the privacy of his mind, and to discount all his gay philosophy.

“You are right,” he answered soberly; “I don’t.”

This was Richard’s nearest approach to moodiness. Troublous thoughts showed on his face.

“I try to be honest,” he turned to her.

“I believe you,” she replied sympathetically.

He thought for awhile. “I talk everything out,” he explained. “It annoys folks, I see.”

“I like it.”

“I know you do.”

“Even when it is just silly.” She would not let him feel too secure!

“That’s what I most fear, that all my honesty is leading me to no honesty at all.” He was too absorbed in himself to notice her gibe. “Sometimes I wish I could foresee the future and gather what my life really means after all. Deep within me I feel there is a tremendous change coming. I feel almost like a caterpillar grub just before he bursts into a butterfly. All my philosophizing may be just caterpillar-views; I’ll laugh at it all when I take my first winging flight across the hills. Don’t take my sayings too seriously.”

“Gracious! When have I ever done that?”

“Good point!” He recognized the hit. “Let’s get back to Walter. He’s not hopeless. Didn’t you see the way he manœuvered that boat? Didn’t you notice his eyes? The first signs of intelligence I have seen in them. He was interested in that boat and vain as a rooster when we flattered him. Given interest in something decent, with a little vanity, and anybody can be saved. Let’s swim in and break the news to him. I’m awfully hopeful.”

“Walter’s lazy beyond belief,” she said as they swam.

“So am I,” he admitted promptly, “and proud of it! ‘Lazy’ is a much-abused word. In a world of work it has got a bad name. But it is the ideal of all workers, after all--the state they save and strive for.”

Walter was sitting on Phœbe Norris’ little porch, which overlooked the water. Now that the trip was finished he seemed to slump into despondency. His jaw dropped and his eye took on the stare of an idiot. Certainly he looked a hopeless case.

Richard took a rocker beside him. Jerry stood back and watched.

“Can’t get over that wind-pocket,” Richard tried to stir him into mental wakefulness. “Still looks like magic to me.”

Walter’s face became animated. He had cat-boated all over the upper part of the Lake, he told Richard, ever since he was big enough to steal away from home. He knew a lot about that Lake that the other fellows did not know. Upon being pressed for further information, he said that he had sailed with the two best skippers on the Lake, Captain Fagner and Captain Tyler, but he could tell them a thing or two. Tyler was a careful man; he knew the Lake pretty well, but he took few chances; sailed a steady race and often won through sheer sticking to it. Fagner was more daring; he broke all the rules--split tacks when there seemed to be no good reason; dared shallow water when the sail was full; declined to reef until the stick began to pull out the back stays, and won often through sheer pluck. But there were some things about the Lake that neither man knew.

“Good!” cried Richard; “when you get your own boat, Captain Wells, we’ll make those fellows hump themselves.”

At that the light gleamed a moment in Walter’s eyes, and then went out.

“Wouldn’t you like to be your own skipper on a regular Class A boat?” Richard asked.

“Sure,” Walter mumbled; “but,” he jerked his head toward “Red Jacket,” “what’s the use of talkin’?”

“None whatever!” agreed Richard. “We’re beyond the talking stage, old boy. Mrs. Wells is going to stake you for a real boat.”

The idea did not get into the boy’s head. He rose unsteadily and said, “When are yuh goin’ up?” meaning “When am I going to get my promised drink?”

“But you are really going to get a yacht, Walter,” Jerry told him. “Mother said so, this morning.”

Jerry had been astonished at the intelligence Walter had exhibited in his story of the two skippers. The kind, somewhat grim Walter she used to know had appeared fleetingly on his face. She began for the first time to have hope that this disgrace upon the family would disappear. She, too, had to change her opinion of persons; the value of Richard’s plan for the regeneration of this youngster began to appear.

Walter sat down, frankly disturbed.

“She s-said so, did she?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes!” Jerry cried enthusiastically. “Richard got her to promise. How soon can we get one?”

Nervousness seized him. He turned to speak, but stuttered and stopped.

“They’re made in Wisconsin, aren’t they?” she asked.

He nodded.

“We’ll telegraph,” Richard suggested. “Perhaps they have some already built.”

Walter shook his head. They waited for him to get control of his voice.

“Fag--Fagner,” he managed, “has one, new one, ordered. Said--said this spring he’d let me have it.”

“Good!” cried Richard. “Where is it now?”

“On the w-way,” Walter stuttered. “Saw him last night in Penn Yan. S-said it was on the w-way.” He took a brace and went on more smoothly. “Said it had won races out there. Said I could have the _Moodiks_ if I wanted it; could have my choice.”

Jerry explained, “The _Moodiks_ is probably the fastest boat on the Lake.”

“Gave you your choice, did he? Well! He’s a real sportsman, now, isn’t he?”

“He--he’s all right,” nodded Walter. “Ev--everybody’s fair ’n’ square up here.”

There was a certain tilt to his head and an odd look at Richard that both he and Jerry noticed.

“All right, Walt,” Richard spoke softly. “Got you your boat, didn’t I?”

“Sure,” but he shook his head doubtfully.

With the steadiest gait Walter had shown in many a day he trudged up the hill.

“He seems to suspect you of something,” said Jerry.

“Poor boy!” He watched the retreating figure.

“Why should Walter suspect you of anything?” she asked.

He turned to her inquiringly.

“You don’t, do you?”

She hesitated; he laughed.

“No!” she spoke quickly. “You misinterpreted me. Only--Walter’s tone seemed so--significant of----”

“Has Walter’s tone always been significant of anything?”

“Oh, forget it,” she spoke hurriedly. “Go in and get dressed. I’ll wait for you.”

“All right,” he said quietly.

An unaccountable suspicion took possession of her--unaccountable because Walter’s brain was not worth a burnt sulphur match, and any thoughts he might have should be laughed at. But for the moment he had seemed so sane--just like his old self--steady and dignified. He seemed to be warning Richard. And Walter was her brother--pshaw! but an idiot of a brother. Still.... After all, what did she know about this Richard Richard? Not even his name. Clever? Undoubtedly, but the cleverness that has employed itself often before and knows all the answers. Might he not be a clever impostor trying to gull two country women and a half-witted boy?

Appearances were all in his favour; but swindlers were no longer the villainous-looking desperadoes of the old melodrama. Certainly he was different from any man she had ever known--but then she had known only good men.

Then she thought--it came to her in a stunning flash--of the scene on the stern of the _Victoria_, the two men swaying up and down on that slanting iron deck; and remorse seized her. When Richard came out, she went swiftly towards him and held out her hands. He took them inquiringly.

“Forgive me, my dear,” she smiled up at him, sure that the endearing term would recall their domestic playette at the top of the hill back of Naples.

“For what?”

“For suspecting you of being a villain,” she smiled.

“What made you suspect?”

“Walter must have got on my nerves,” she explained. “You see, I really don’t know anything about you, and you _are_ peculiar, and I had no experience with villains; and so putting nothing and nothing together I was trying to make a total.... Well! What are you puzzling over? We’re even, that’s all.”

“How, pray?”

“Didn’t you suspect me of being a flirt?”

He disengaged her hands carefully.

“And still do,” he spoke gravely.

“You _are_ a villain.” She jokingly struck at him.

“I admit it.” He caught her hands and warded off the blow. “All good-looking women are unwitting flirts, and all men are potential villains--the one beckons and the other--doesn’t the classic song indicate that it is the villain who ever pursues her?”

“Villain?” cried a hearty voice from within the Norris cottage. “Who’s tryin’ to play villain on my front lawn?” A magnificent head of red hair parted the curtains that served for door and mosquito protectors. “Jerry!” cried Phœbe, “you angel-child! Come over here and hug me! Who’s your young man?” she asked as the two young women rocked together. “Do I--or do I not--hug him too?”

Richard opened his arms.

“Decide, O angel-child. Quick, decide!” he cried.

Jerry emerged laughing from Phœbe’s strenuous embrace.

“No!” she decided.

“Pshaw!” cried Richard.

“Don’t it beat all?” echoed Phœbe, with a fine imitation of a disappointed damsel.