Linda nodded vigorously.
“Peter, I have done something perfectly awful,” she confessed. “I never in this world meant to do it. I wouldn’t have done it for anything. I have got myself into the dreadfullest mess, and I don’t know how to get out. When I couldn’t stand it another minute I started right to you, Peter, just like I’d have started to my father if I’d had him to go to.”
“I see,” said Peter, deeply interested in the toe of his shoe. “You depended on my age and worldly experience and my unconcealed devotion to your interests, which is exactly what you should do, my dear. Now tell me. Dry your eyes and tell me, and whatever it is I’ll fix it all right and happily for you. I’ll swear to do it if you want me to.”
Then Linda raised her eyes to his face.
“Oh, Peter, you dear!” she cried. “Peter, I’ll just kneel and kiss your hands if you can fix this for me.”
Peter set his jaws and continued his meditations on shoe leather.
“Make it snappy!” he said tersely. “The sooner your troubles are out of your system the better you’ll feel. Whose letters are those, and why are you crying over them?”
“Oh, Peter,” quavered Linda, “you know how I love Marian. You have seen her and I have told you over and over.”
“Yes,” said Peter soothingly, “I know.”
“I have told you how, after years of devotion to Marian, John Gilman let Eileen make a perfect rag of him and tie him into any kind of knot she chose. Peter, when Marian left here she had lost everything on earth but a little dab of money. She had lost a father who was fine enough to be my father’s best friend. She had lost a mother who was fine enough to rear Marian to what she is. She had lost them in a horrible way that left her room for a million fancies and regrets: ‘if I had done this,’ or ‘if I had done that,’ or ‘if I had taken another road.’ And when she went away she knew definitely she had lost the first and only love of her heart; and I knew, because she was so sensitive and so fine, I knew, better than anybody living, how she could be hurt; and I thought if I could fix some scheme that would entertain her and take her mind off herself and make her feel appreciated only for a little while—I knew in all reason, Peter, when she got out in the world where men would see her and see how beautiful and fine she is, there would be somebody who would want her quickly. All the time I have thought that when she came back, you would want her. Peter, I fibbed when I said I was setting your brook for Louise Whiting. I was not. I don’t know Louise Whiting. She is nothing to me. I was setting it for you and Marian. It was a white head I saw among the iris marching down your creek bank, not a gold one, Peter.”