Mr. Jardine, seating himself on the piazza of the hotel, which overlooked the motley throngs of the square with the salient concomitants of the mushroom spread of the tents, the tawdry ornaments of the vendors' stands, the tall mast of the high diver, the periphery of the gigantic Ferris Wheel with its seats filled with rustics swaying in the slow revolution through the afternoon glow, the business houses of the little town that bounded the space on each side, their decorous, sober, orderly appearance, so alien to the flurry and carnival folly of the streets, had sufficient need of the mild stimulant of his cigar to restore the tone of his nerves and allay the irritation that harassed his mental processes. He was glad of the silence, for so he accounted the freedom from talk whether of accost or reply, despite the varied clamours of raucous voices, the wailing of infants, the whinnying of impatient horses, eager for the homeward journey, and mindful of supper, as the waggon teams stood hitched in rows to the courthouse fence, the braying of the band, the stentorian cries of the spielers, all the unwearied activities of the lungs of the mountebanks. He was glad to be no longer in the seat of the scornful, to be continually objecting, deriding, frowning down the features of the little show; if it was the fad of the young ladies to entertain their idleness with such rubbish, surely for the nonce he might ignore its vapidities, its pitiful poverty-stricken shifts, its sedulous catering to the low capacities of the common rustic crowd. There was much distasteful, even disgusting to a fastidious sense in its exhibitions, but there was nothing absolutely coarse, and not the most remote suggestion of anything vile. It was a clean show, as its handbills insistently proclaimed. It need not have so lacerated his sensibilities, he felt, as the fragrant nicotian solace began its soothing effect. To be sure it was a sacrifice, a poignant trial to his hyper-elegant standards to be with Lucia Laniston amid scenes so unworthy. He would fain meet her, as heretofore, on a plane more in accord with the character of both, among circumstances that elicited those charms of intellect and culture that had won his admiration and respect as her more obvious grace and beauty had captured his heart. In his eyes she united many fascinations, the more remarkable because of her youth. Her solid, unimpassioned judgment, her cultivated taste, her very respectable scholastic acquirements, gauged from even a high educational point of view, of which he had seen many evidences, rendered it manifestly impossible that she should enjoy the exhibition in any serious sense. It merely furnished a surface for that exuberant buoyancy and those fantastic traits which her aunt called "wildness," and which he supposed were the inseparable concomitants of such abounding youth and vitality and joyous spirits. She was alert and energetic, and full of life and mirth, and it was not the fashion of the day, as of yore, to set such a damsel down to sew her sampler by the fire till such time, soon or late, as her cavalier came to claim his domestic paragon. Things were different now. Wider courses of study, much travel, athletic recreations, great liberty of thought and action had resulted in a wider outlook for girls—and, suddenly, he doubted if it made them happier from any point of view. He was remembering the dull depression, the listless disillusionment in Lucia Laniston's face as but now they had walked to the hotel together, and the ladies had sought their rooms for some freshening of attire before starting on the afternoon drive back to New Helvetia. The horses were swift and fresh, and the distance was thus minimised; there was a new moon to enliven the dusk, the roads were very good; the driver, a stalwart young fellow, himself, and Frank Laniston, three men, quietly carrying arms in conformity with the privilege accorded travellers, were ample escort for the ladies, even in these remote wildernesses; but Jardine was a prudent man of a prompt habit. He drew out his watch, and looked critically at the wane of the day evidenced in the skies, bright though they still were, beginning to hope that the usual feminine procrastinations might not so postpone the hour of departure as to render the party unduly benighted.
Chances of casualties, a broken wheel, a horse going lame, a mistaken direction in fording a river, a cloud on the moon, the shattering of the carriage lamps in a blow from a projecting bough, even the unlikely possibility of highway robbers, should not be invested with unnecessary jeopardy and added danger. He was at such a disadvantage in this respect as does not usually harass the guardian of ladies. He was neither husband, father, nor brother, to stand, timepiece in hand, and proclaim the wasting hour, like an irate clock. He could not order the luggage downstairs—packed or unpacked. He could not threaten that he would start on schedule time, regardless if all portable property were left behind. Jardine was only a friend, as yet, benign, complaisant, and in no position to dictate. Yet he wondered, with a vexation which tobacco was powerless to reach, what could be detaining the ladies in their preparations for an afternoon drive through an unpeopled wilderness. If it was a question of toilette its effect was already a foregone conclusion—Ruth had slain her thousands, and Lucia her tens of thousands—unconsciously he was adopting their own exaggerated vein. He could not imagine that anything of consequence hindered their readiness,—only the usual feminine, dilatory aversion to be on time for any vicissitude of life. He began to feel that he must act, yet he shrank from encountering the laggards with admonitions and reproaches. He realised that he had not commended himself by his stiff imperviousness to the simple enjoyments of the "lark" to-day, such as it was, and his disdainful incapacity to enter into its spirit had not bettered it. He was anxious to appear no more as unresponsive monitor, full of warnings, and wise saws, and stiff reproofs. Where was Francis Laniston? Naught was to be disparaged by thrusting him into the jaws of domestic displeasure. Let him make the remonstrance, and bear its resilient blow as behoved his position and relationship. Let the dilatory ladies wreak their displeasure on the urgent Frank! Animated by this inhuman resolution, Jardine sprang from his chair to go in search of Frank. He was interrupted by the sudden issuance of the clerk of the hotel, a young, plump, blond man, wearing an immaculate white duck suit, with short hair in a stiff straight roach above his brow, no eyebrows—thus he dispensed with frowns—a long, blunt nose, a twinkling blue-grey eye, very small and very affable. His whole aspect was not unducklike, and, as he remained all day behind his desk, having no outside vocation to call him from his post, he was very speckless, without even the creases incident to a sitting posture, since he stood at his desk, or perched on a high stool. He might have been expected to creak with starch as his brisk short steps brought him to the encounter.
"Speak to you a moment, Mr. Jardine?" he said, pausing by a chair, and leaning with both hands on its back in his stiff white garments. Many men, however wasteful in general, have some saving grace of frugality. Jennings, the clerk, a most voluble man, was nevertheless sparing in parts of speech, and economised pronouns and conjunctions. This necessitated a reckless expenditure in punctuation—commas, colons, periods, and dashes, but, as his prelections were not destined for type, he did not realise, perhaps, that what he saved at the spile he lost at the bung. "Considerable storm in the mountains. Thought I ought to let you know. Heard you give orders for the horses to be put to at once. See from east window of office. Mountains have been caught up in clouds—so to speak. I tried to telephone to New Helvetia, in interest of your party.—Hate to be alarmist—wanted to find out what weather is doing there. No answer. Central says wire is blown down. Intact as far as Crossroads. Tried Mr. Tackett, the storekeeper there. He says raining there heavily. Big blow in the woods—falling timber—and lightning—thought I'd let you know."
"Thank you, very much," said Jardine, still standing with his watch in his hand contemplating, not its dial, but these untoward complications. "Can you afford us accommodations? I understood this morning that the house was full."
"Thought of that—the ladies have had a room all day—only one—very large, with alcove—two beds—double room. And you gentlemen—we have thought of you—we will offer you little blue parlour—best we can do——"
"And sleep tunefully on the piano, I suppose," Frank interpolated. He had just strolled up, evidently already informed of the quandary, and stood listening, his hands in his pockets.
The duck laughed with a short grating note.
"Folding bed—that handsome cabinet with the Indian curiosities on the brackets—latest patent. The divan is really a sofa-bed, too—you'll be qualified to help us out and be hospitable, if any more single men drop in on us," the clerk said tauntingly.
"Now don't you bank on that. The little blue parlour is my bower, and don't you forget it," said Frank.
The ladies had not come prepared to stay the night, but Mrs. Laniston remembered that in going to New Helvetia in June she had left a steamer trunk here, after her European voyage, filled with heavier wear than would be needed before autumn. According to the accommodating methods of the hotel, it had been received and stored in the attic, and now it was brought down in the nick of time, to the delight of the young ladies, who hoped that it might contain something that they might borrow, in addition to the absolutely necessary paraphernalia for the night. As soon as Mrs. Laniston showed some natural disposition to defend her belongings from these unwarranted depredations, they became "possessed," as she expressed it, to see what she had in her trunk, and, having all the desire in the world to maintain her ascendency and her rights, she declared she would not turn the key until they promised that they would ask for nothing but the loan of a nightgown apiece.