CHAPTER XXIV
LIKE DUCKS TO WATER
They took to it like ducks take to water. Not, of course, that they
didn't kick about making their own beds and having military discipline
generally. They complained a lot, but when after three days went by with
the railroad running as much on schedule as it ever does, they were all
still there, and Mr. Jennings had limped out and spent a half-hour at
the wood-pile with his gouty foot on a cushion, I saw it was a success.
I ought to have been glad. I was, although when Mrs. Dicky found they
were all staying, and that she might have to live in the shelter-house
the rest of the winter, there was an awful scene. I was glad, too, every
time I could see Mr. Thoburn's gloomy face, or hear the things he said
when his name went up for the military walk.
(Oh yes, we had a blackboard in the hall, and every morning each guest
looked to see if it was wood-pile day or military-walk day. At first,
instead of wood-pile, it was walk-clearing day, but they soon had the
snow off all the paths.)
As I say, I was glad. It looked as if the new idea was a success,
although as Doctor Barnes said, nobody could really tell until new
people began to come. That was the real test. They had turned the baths
into a gymnasium and they had beginners' classes and advanced classes,
and a prize offered on the blackboard of a cigar for the man who made
the most muscular improvement in a week. The bishop won it the first
week, being the only one who could lie on his back and raise himself to
a sitting position without helping himself with his hands. As Mrs. Moody
said, it would be easy enough if somebody only sat on one's feet to hold
them down.
But I must say I never got over the shock of seeing the spring-house
drifted with snow, all the windows wide open, the spring frozen hard,
and people sitting there during the rest hour, in furs and steamer rugs,
trying to play cards with mittens on—their hands, not the cards, of
course—and not wrangling. I was lonesome for it!
I hadn't much to do, except from two to four to be at the spring-house,
and to count for the deep-breathing exercise. Oh, yes, we had that, too!
I rang a bell every half-hour and everybody got up, and I counted slowly
"one" and they breathed in through their noses, and "two" and they
exhaled quickly through their mouths. I guess most of them used more of
their lungs than they ever knew they had.
Well, everybody looked better and felt better, although they wouldn't
all acknowledge it. Miss Cobb suffered most, not having the fire log
to curl her hair with. But as she said herself, between gymnasium and
military walks, and the silence hour, and eating, which took a long
time, everybody being hungry—and going to bed at nine, she didn't see
how she could have worried with it, anyhow. The fat ones, of course,
objected to an apple and a cup of hot water for breakfast, but except
Mr. Thoburn, they all realized it was for the best. He wasn't there for
his health, he said, having never had a sick day in his life, but when
he saw it was apple and hot water or leave, he did like Adam—he took
the apple.
The strange thing of all was the way they began to look up to Mr.
Pierce. He was very strict; if he made a rule, it was obey or leave.
(As they knew after Mr. Moody refused to take the military walk, and was
presented with his bill and a railroad schedule within an hour. He had
to take the military walk with Doctor Barnes that afternoon alone.) They
had to respect a man who could do all the things in the gymnasium that
they couldn't, and come in from a ten or fifteen-mile tramp through the
snow and take a cold plunge and a swim to rest himself.
It was on Monday that we really got things started, and on Monday
afternoon Miss Summers came out to the shelter-house in a towering rage.
"Where's Mr. Pierce?" she demanded.
"I guess you can see he isn't here," I said.
"Just wait until I see him!" she announced. "Do you know that I am down
on the blackboard for the military walk to-day?
"Why not?"
She turned and glared at me. "Why not?" she repeated. "Why, the audacity
of the wretch! He brings me out into the country in winter to play in
his atrocious play, strands me, and then tells me to walk twenty miles a
day and smile over it!" She came over to me and shook my arm. "Not only
that," she said, "but he has cut out my cigarettes and put Arabella on
dog biscuit—Arabella, who can hardly eat a chicken wing."
"Well, there's something to be thankful for," I said. "He didn't put you
on dog biscuit."
She laughed then, with one of her quick changes of humor.
"The worst of it is," she said, in a confidential whisper, "I'll do it.
I feel it. I guess if the truth were known I'm some older than he is,
but—I'm afraid of him, Minnie. Little Judy is ready to crawl around and
speak for a cracker or a kind word. Oh, I'm not in love with him, but
he's got the courage to say what he means and do what he says."
She went to the door and looked back smiling.
"I'm off for the wood-pile," she called back. "And I've promised to chop
two inches off my heels."
As I say, they took to it like ducks to water—except two of them, von
Inwald and Thoburn. Mr. von Inwald stayed on, I hardly know why, but I
guess it was because Mr. Jennings still hadn't done anything final about
settlements, and with the newspapers marrying him every day it wasn't
very comfortable. Next to him, Mr. Thoburn was the unhappiest mortal I
have ever seen. He wouldn't leave, and with Doctor Barnes carrying
out his threat to take six inches off his waist, he stopped measuring
window-frames with a tape line and took to measuring himself.
I came across him on Wednesday—the third day—straggling home from the
military walk. He and Mr. von Inwald limped across the tennis-court and
collapsed on the steps of the spring-house while the others went on to
the sanatorium. I had been brushing the porch, and I leaned on my broom
and looked at them.
"You're both looking a lot better," I said. "Not so—well, not so
beer-y. How do you like it by this time?"
"Fine!" answered Mr. Thoburn. "Wouldn't stay if I didn't like it."
"Wouldn't you?"
"But I'll tell you this, Minnie," he said, changing his position with
a groan to look up at me, "somebody ought to warn that young man. Human
nature can stand a lot but it can't stand everything. He's overdoing
it!"
"They like it," I said.
"They think they do," he retorted. "Mark my words, Minnie, if he adds
another mile to the walk to-morrow there will be a mutiny. Kingdoms may
be lost by an extra blister on a heel."
Mr. von Inwald had been sitting with his feet straight out, scowling,
but now he turned and looked at me coolly.
"All that keeps me here," he said, "is Minnie's lovely hair. It takes me
mentally back home, Minnie, to a lovely lady—may I have a bit of it to
keep by me?"
"You may not," I retorted angrily.
"Oh! The lovely lady—but never mind that. For the sake of my love for
you, Minnie, find me a cigarette, like a good girl! I am desolate."
"There's no tobacco on the place," I said firmly, and went on with my
sweeping.
"When I was a boy," Mr. Thoburn remarked, looking out thoughtfully
over the snow, "we made a sort of cigarette out of corn-silk. You don't
happen to have any corn-silk about, do you, Minnie?"
"No," I said shortly. "If you take my advice, Mr. Thoburn, you'll go
back to town. You can get all the tobacco you want there—and you're
wasting your time here." I leaned on my broom and looked down at him,
but he was stretching out his foot and painfully working his ankle up
and down.
"Am I?" he asked, looking at his foot. "Well, don't count on it too
much, Minnie. You always inspire me, and sitting here I've just thought
of something."
He got up and hobbled off the porch, followed by Mr. von Inwald. I
saw him say something to Mr. von Inwald, who threw back his head and
laughed. Then I saw them stop and shake hands and go on again in deep
conversation. I felt uneasy.
Doctor Barnes came out that afternoon and watched me while I closed
the windows. He had a package in his hand. He sat on the railing of the
spring and looked at me.
"You're not warmly enough dressed for this kind of thing," he remarked.
"Where's that gray rabbits' fur, or whatever it is?"
"If you mean my chinchillas," I said, "they're in their box. Chinchillas
are as delicate as babies and not near so plentiful. I'm warm enough."
"You look it." He reached over and caught one of my hands. "Look at
that! Blue nails! It's about four degrees above zero here, and while
the rest are wrapped in furs and steamer rugs, with hotwater bottles at
their feet, you've got on a shawl. I'll bet you two dollars you haven't
got on any—er—winter flannels."
"I never bet," I retorted, and went on folding up the steamer rugs.
"I'd like to help," he said, "but you're so darned capable, Miss
Minnie—"
"You might see if you can get the slot-machine empty," I said. "It's
full of water. It wouldn't work and Mr. Moody thought it was frozen.
He's been carrying out boiling water all afternoon. If it stays in there
and freezes the thing will explode."
He wasn't listening. He'd been fussing with his package and now he
opened it and handed it to me, in the paper.
"It's a sweater," he said, not looking at me. "I bought it for myself
and it was too small— Confound it, Minnie, I wish I could lie! I bought
them for you! There's the whole business—sweater, cap, leggings and
mittens. Go on! Throw them at me!"
But I didn't. I looked at them, all white and soft, and it came over
me suddenly how kind people had been lately, and how much I'd been
getting—the old doctor's waistcoat buttons and Miss Pat's furs, and now
this! I just buried my face in them and cried.
Doctor Barnes stood by and said nothing. Some men wouldn't have
understood, but he did. After a minute or so he came over and pulled the
sweater out from the bundle.
"I'm glad you like 'em," he said, "but as I bought them at Hubbard's, in
Finleyville, and as the old liar guaranteed they wouldn't shrink, we'd
better not cry on 'em."
Well, I put them on and I was warmer and happier than I had been for
some time. But that night when I went out to the shelter-house with
the supper basket I found both the honeymooners in a wild state of
excitement. They said that about five o'clock Thoburn had gone out to
the shelter-house and walked all around it. Finally he had stopped at
one of the windows of the other room, had worked at it with his penknife
and got it open, and crawled through. They sat paralyzed with fright,
and heard him moving around the other room, and he even tried their
door. But it had been locked. They hadn't the slightest idea what he was
doing, but after perhaps ten minutes he went away, going out the door
this time and taking the key with him.
Mr. Dick had gone in when he was safely gone, but he could see nothing
unusual, except that the door of the cupboard in the corner was standing
open and there was a brand-new, folding, foot rule in it.
That day the bar was closed for good, and there was a good bit of
fussing. To add to the trouble, that evening at dinner the pastries
were cut off, and at eight o'clock a delegation headed by Senator Biggs
visited Mr. Pierce in the office and demanded pastry put back on the
menu and the stewed fruit taken off. But Mr. Pierce was firm and they
came out pretty well subdued. It was that night, I think, that candles
were put in the bedrooms, and all the electric lights were turned off at
nine-thirty.
At ten o'clock I took my candle and went to Mr. Pierce's sitting-room
door. I didn't think they'd stand much more and I wanted to tell him so.
Nobody answered and I opened the door. He was asleep, face down on the
hearth-rug in front of the fire. His candle was lighted on the floor
beside him and near it lay a newspaper cutting crumpled in a ball.
I picked it up. It was a list of the bridal party for Miss Patty's
wedding.
I dropped it where I found it and went out and knocked again loudly. He
wakened after a minute and came to the door with the candle in his hand.
"Oh, it's you, Minnie. Come in!"
I went in and put my candle on the table.
"I've got to talk to you," I said. "I don't mind admitting things have
been going pretty well, but—they won't stand for the candles. You mark
my words."
"If they'll stand for the bar being closed, why not the candles?" he
demanded.
"Well," I said, "they can't have electric light sent up in boxes and
labeled 'books,' but they can get liquor that way."
He whistled, and then he laughed.
"Then we'll not have any books," he said. "I guess they can manage. 'My
only books were woman's looks—'" and then he saw the ball of paper on
the floor and his expression changed. He walked over and picked it up,
smoothing it out on the palm of his hand.
After a minute he looked up at me.
"I haven't been to the shelter-house to-day. They are all right?"
"They're nervous. With everybody walking these days they daren't venture
a nose out of doors."
He was still holding the clipping.
"And—Miss Jennings!" he said. "She—I think she looks better."
"Her father's in a better humor for one thing—says Abraham Lincoln
split logs, and that it beats massage."
I had been standing in the doorway, but he took me by the arm and drew
me into the room.
"I wish you'd sit down for about ten minutes, Minnie," he said. "I guess
every fellow has a time when he's got to tell his troubles to some good
woman—not but that you know mine already. You're as shrewd as you are
kind."
I sat down on the edge of a chair. For all I had had so much to do with
the sanatorium, I never forgot that I was only the spring-house girl. He
threw himself back in his easy chair, with the candle behind him on the
table and his arms above his head.
"It's like this, Minnie," he said. "Mr. Jennings likes the new order of
things and—he's going to stay."
I nodded.
"And I like it here. I want to stay. It's the one thing I've found that
I think I can do. It isn't what I've dreamed of, but it's worth while.
To anchor the derelicts of humanity in a sort of repair dock here, and
scrape the barnacles off their dispositions, and send them out shipshape
again, surely that's something. And I can do it."
I nodded again.
"But if the Jenningses stay—" he looked at me. "Minnie, in heaven's
name, what am I going to do if SHE stays?"
"I don't know, Mr. Pierce," I said. "I couldn't sleep last night for
thinking about it."
He smoothed out the paper and looked at it again, but I think he
scarcely saw it.
"The situation is humorous," he said, "only my sense of humor seems
to have died. She doesn't know I exist, except to invent new and
troublesome regulations for her annoyance. She is very sweet when she
meets me, but only because I am helping her to have her own way. And
I—my God, Minnie, I sit in the office and listen for her step outside!"
He moved a little and held out the paper in the candle-light.
"'It will please Americans to know,'" he read, "'that with the exception
of the Venetian lace robe sent by the bridegroom's mother, all of Miss
Patricia Jennings' elaborate trousseau is being made in America.
"'Prince Oskar and his suite, according to present arrangements, will
sail from Naples early in March, and the wedding date, although not yet
definitely fixed, will probably be the first week in April. The wedding
party will include—'"
He stopped there, and looked at me, trying to smile.
"I knew it all before," he said, "but there's something inevitable about
print. I guess I hadn't realized it."
He had the same look of wretchedness he'd had the first night I saw
him—a hungry look—and I couldn't help it; I went over to him and
patted him on the head like a little boy. I was only the spring-house
girl, but I was older than he was, and he needed somebody to comfort
him.
"I can't think of anything to say that will help any," I said, "unless
it's what you wrote yourself on the blackboard down in the hall, 'Keep
busy and you'll keep happy.'"
He reached up for my hand, and rough and red as it was—having been in
the spring for so many years—he kissed it.
"Good for you, Minnie!" he said. "You're rational, and for a day or so
I haven't been. That's right, KEEP BUSY. I'll do it." He got up and put
his hands on my shoulders. "Good old pal, when you see me going around
as if all the devils of hell were tormenting me, just come up and say
that to me, will you?"
I promised, and he opened the door, candle in hand, and smiling.
"I'm a thousand per cent. better already," he said. "I just needed to
tell somebody, I think. I dare say I've made a lot more fuss than it
really deserves."
At the far end of the hall, a girl came out of one room, and carrying
a candle, went across to another. It was Miss Patty, going to bid her
father good night. When I left, he was still staring down the hall after
her, his candle dripping wax on the floor, and his face white. I guess
he hadn't overstated his case. |
