§ i
“TIRED?” asked Mr. Stephens.
“Not a bit,” said Andrée. “Edna and I owe you a vote of thanks for putting a little life into one of those ghastly Sundays. I loathe Sundays.”
“You wouldn’t if you’d ever done any work,” said he.
She looked at him in surprise. He was sitting on the rail of the veranda where she had found him when she came out after her late and solitary breakfast. He looked well in his white flannels; he wore his great variety of clothes with a sort of innocent gusto, like so many fancy dress costumes, and though so obviously not to the manner born, he had no awkwardness; there was, on the contrary, an engaging and honest assurance about him, and a remarkable vitality. His features were sharp and by no means distinguished, but they were good. His blue eyes were frank and intelligent. He was wiry, well knit, not without vanity in his strength. The cheerful grin had vanished from his face with his last words, leaving it quite serious.
“I have done work,” she answered. “You don’t know what hard, tiresome work practising is.”
“It isn’t work,” he interrupted. “It’s preparation for work. You’ve never had to go on when you were tired. In fact, you’ve never had to do it at all. Your conscience has been your master, and I can tell you, it’s a darn sight easier master than hunger.”
This was extraordinary talk.
“Well, I suppose I’m lucky then,” said Andrée. “I’ve never had to earn money, and I don’t suppose I ever shall.”
“It’s not lucky to be useless,” he said.
“Useless!” she cried. “Do you think making music is useless?”
“Of course it is. Lots of people get on without music. Fine, high-minded people, too.”
Andrée smiled scornfully.
“I dare say!” she said. “But there are some people who wouldn’t think life was worth living without art.”
“No, there aren’t. Not one. If you gave any human being his choice between a decent happy life without a sign of art, or death, no one but a maniac would choose death.”
“I should!”
“Then that’s because you don’t know anything about death, or life either.”
She shrugged her shoulders, and half turned away.
“You’d better not bother to talk to such a fool, then,” she said. “I’ll admit I can’t talk to people who despise music.”
“I don’t despise it. I’m very fond of it. I play a little myself. In fact, I think I’ve got quite a talent for it. If I could have studied, I’d have been a pretty good musician.”
“I don’t doubt it, judging by your performance yesterday morning,” said Andrée.
She was glad to see his face flush as she walked away. He needed taking down.
Still, she couldn’t help thinking of him. He was an interesting, if an impertinent man. Her mother had said nothing further about him, but he was obviously in the category of impossible persons. Perhaps they had encouraged him too much....
But the beastly part of it was, that he was always doing such interesting things, things you couldn’t help wanting to do yourself. He lived in a sort of world of his own, quite cheerful in his ostracism. Perhaps he didn’t even notice the scorn and disapproval of the respectable old ladies, or the contempt of the matrons. He walked about the corridors with his hat on, he sat on the porch whistling loudly, late at night, when his betters wanted to sleep. Complaints poured in upon the placid Mrs. Dewey. And still, in spite of all this, Andrée and Edna followed his activities with envious eyes. One day a lean, worn horse was brought round for him from some mysterious source, and he came out and packed on it a most peculiar burden in a watercloth cover. He was there a long time, inspecting the girths, readjusting his load, intensely serious. Then he glanced up and saw the girls in the doorway.
“I’m off for a little camping trip,” he said. “A couple of days—exploring the hills.”
He mounted nimbly and turned to wave at them, and trotted off, straight and soldierly, in khaki breeches and a white shirt, and a big sombrero on his neat head.
The next thing he did when he returned was to order a canoe from the city and carry it on his back a long way to a suitable little river. He was away in it for three days and came back with a fine basket of fish which he asked Mrs. Dewey to cook for the entire house.
And that evening after dinner he frankly approached Claudine.
“They tell me you know a lot about flowers,” he said. “I don’t know much, but I know enough to spot rare ones. I’ve brought back three or four specimens I think you’d like to have.”
“Thank you!” said Claudine. “You’re very kind!”
She hadn’t the heart to snub the friendly creature; besides, it was very nice of him to think of her.
“I’ll be very pleased to see them in the morning,” she said.
“Do you mind smoking?” he asked.
She was startled; did he intend to stay by her side?
“Not at all! And anyhow, I’m going in directly. I have letters to write.”
She left him sitting on the rail in his characteristic attitude, the attitude of a small boy, a rather humorous figure. And yet, in a way, a singularly manly and independent one, quite indifferent to the disapproval of the rocking old ladies, quite sufficient unto himself. Solitary, he was not lonely, not forlorn; he no more objected to being ignored than a cat might have objected. He somehow stood out against the background of mountains and starry sky with a startling individuality, like the epitome of valiant humanity defying nature. She thought of him with great indulgence, in spite of the fact that he had driven her indoors.