§ ii
It was an imposing safari, observed by the people on the veranda with excessive interest. First went Claudine under a parasol held by Mr. MacGregor, then the two girls, arm in arm, and behind them, alone and unheeded, the young host, carrying a number of things, and behind him Mrs. Dewey’s fat youth, and a young man never accounted for, both heavily laden. Like a general the little man called out his orders.
“To your right now!” And Claudine and Mr. MacGregor would lead the march in that direction. Once they had to make a détour to avoid a field of cows, through which Andrée refused to pass.
“Now!” he said. “Just down this hill, and you’ll see the place. It’s beautiful! Fern Glen, I’ve named it. It’s a regular, natural swimming pool—water cold and clear as can be. And quiet! Lots of nice little birds, too, Mrs. Vincelle, just what you like.”
But instead of the exclamation of admiration he had expected, he heard a tragic cry from Andrée.
“Why, it’s nothing in the world but our horrible old snakey pool!”
“I didn’t realize we were getting here,” said Edna. “We’ve always come up the stream.”
“But what have you got against it?” asked the young man, horribly chagrined. “It’s a beautiful spot, and it’s not snakey.”
“It is!” said Andrée. “We’ve seen snakes swimming in your beautiful natural swimming pool.”
“They weren’t poisonous snakes, then,” he assured her. “And they’ll keep out of your way.”
“I won’t give them the trouble,” said Andrée.
“We’ll look after you, Miss Edna and I,” said Mr. MacGregor. He always made a point of pretending that he and Edna were the firmest of allies, perhaps because she was the only member of the family he didn’t at all fear.
“I believe I’ll risk it!” said Edna. “It looks so lovely and cool and I’m so terribly hot.”
The fat youth and the young man had gone away again, and Mr. MacGregor and the host withdrew, to return very promptly in their bathing suits. Claudine was filled with quiet amusement at them; each was so evidently satisfied with his superiority over the other. Mr. MacGregor had an air of saying “I don’t believe you realized what a fine, big man I am! This poor chap’s tights are too short for me, and my chest almost bursts his poor little jersey. I may be an artist, but what a manly one!” And young Stephens, straighter than ever, couldn’t keep a grin from his freckled face; he was itching with a desire to show off. He was, moreover, very proud of the arrangements he had provided for the ladies; a little tent to serve as their dressing-room, with a mirror fastened to one of its sides.
It was characteristic that Andrée should be the most daring and reckless of them all. Claudine could not swim; she waded waist deep into the pool and stood there throwing water over her shoulders, like a little statue in a fountain, Edna thought, full of a precise and formal grace, not one burnished hair out of place. Mr. MacGregor swam powerfully all about the pool once or twice, to show his strength, and Edna followed him, and though she didn’t go nearly so fast, she wasn’t nearly so tired. He felt a little pang of envy for her youth that tinged his admiration for her with an almost unkindly feeling. Seen in a bathing suit, she was more robust than one would have imagined; she was small, like her mother, but it was not at all a fairylike smallness. She had a beautiful, a perfect figure, well-developed, supple, and sturdy; her skin was as white as a Dryad’s in that tree-shadowed place, and her blond hair was like sunshine, although her dimpled face had no sort of resemblance to any wild wood creature. Never would she pine or die for love! She was a young woman, not a sprite, and she had all of woman’s marvelous resources against suffering. Compared with her, Andrée was an immature and farouche school-girl.
And yet it was she they all looked at. She was a fleet swimmer, but with little endurance. She had a well-known trick of swimming out too far and becoming panic-stricken and needing help to get back to the shore. She had a positive talent for alarming and distressing the others, for being perpetually the centre of attention. It was not that she consciously tried to “show off,” like Stephens; what she did, she did to satisfy some requirement of her own nature. She insisted upon swimming too near the waterfall; she would dive, heedless of remonstrance. She was wayward, taciturn, defiant. She was the only one of the women to get her hair wet, the only one who emerged dank, shivering and dishevelled. And when they sat down on the pebbly shore for supper, she alone was untidy, she alone out of spirits. Her damp hair hung about her shoulders, her lips were bluish; she had only the curtest answers, and was obviously disinclined to speak at all.
“I’m afraid you stayed in the water too long,” said Claudine, with a shade of anxiety.
“No,” whispered Edna to her mother. “It’s not that. She was simply terrified every minute! That snake, you know! And yet, of course, she would hover about the very spot where we saw it.... Don’t speak to her, Mother darling! She’ll be all right in a few minutes.”
The supper was undeniably a triumph for Mr. Stephens. He had done wonders. Carefully concealed, he had caused to be brought a freezer of ice cream, great vacuum bottles of iced tea, and rum to flavour it for those who liked it. His bearers had lighted a fire before leaving, and in it were roasted potatoes and corn. There were also cold chicken and a fine boiled ham and a great number of other delicacies. The guests were hungry and complimentary.
Afterward he brought out that gold cigarette case and passed it about.
“Do you mind if I have one, Mother?” asked Andrée.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Claudine, coldly. There was nothing she disliked more.
But Mr. MacGregor intervened.
“As long as Miss Andrée isn’t a singer,” he said, “won’t you be indulgent, Mrs. Vincelle? I believe they’re very good for the nerves. In my younger days, of course, such a thing would have been out of the question. But live and learn! My own sister—”
“Mercy, what a killing look!” murmured Edna to her sister. “He wants to show you how up-to-date and young he is!”
“Very well!” said Claudine, graciously. But it was not Mr. MacGregor’s plea which had persuaded her; it was the peculiar look on her child’s face. It would be unwise to cross her, she thought.
And Andrée smoked, leaning back against a tree, looking an abandoned, reckless young creature, surrounded by a subtle and dangerous atmosphere of adoration.
The moon came up ... what further enchantment did she need than that light on her pale, dark face, than all that sweetness and mystery of the midsummer night about her?
The bearers came back and took away their burdens, and a little later the picnickers followed. Claudine walked a little in advance with Mr. MacGregor, and whenever, with a strange uneasiness, she turned to look behind her, she certainly saw two little points of light from two cigarettes among the shadows.
She condemned Mr. Stephens to Limbo.