The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (104 page)

“Oh, Miss Fanhall!”

“What is it, Mrs. Truscot?”

“That was a great prank of yours last night, my dear. We all enjoyed the joke so much.”

“Prank?”

“Yes, your riding on the ox cart with that old farmer and that young Mr. What’s-his-name, you know. We all thought it delicious. Ah, my dear, after all — don’t be offended — if we had your people’s wealth and position we might do that sort of unconventional thing, too; but, ah, my dear, we can’t, we can’t! Isn’t the young painter a charming man?”

Out on the porch Hollanden was haranguing his friends. He heard a step and glanced over his shoulder to see who was about to interrupt him. He suddenly ceased his oration, and said, “Hello! what’s the matter with Grace?” The heads turned promptly.

As the girl came toward them it could be seen that her cheeks were very pink and her eyes were flashing general wrath and defiance.

The Worcester girls burst into eager interrogation. “Oh, nothing!” she replied at first, but later she added in an undertone, “That wretched Mrs. Truscot — —”

“What did she say?” whispered the younger Worcester girl.

“Why, she said — oh, nothing!”

Both Hollanden and Hawker were industriously reflecting.

Later in the morning Hawker said privately to the girl, “I know what Mrs. Truscot talked to you about.”

She turned upon him belligerently. “You do?”

“Yes,” he answered with meekness. “It was undoubtedly some reference to your ride upon the ox wagon.”

She hesitated a moment, and then said, “Well?”

With still greater meekness he said, “I am very sorry.”

“Are you, indeed?” she inquired loftily. “Sorry for what? Sorry that I rode upon your father’s ox wagon, or sorry that Mrs. Truscot was rude to me about it?”

“Well, in some ways it was my fault.”

“Was it? I suppose you intend to apologize for your father’s owning an ox wagon, don’t you?”

“No, but — —”

“Well, I am going to ride in the ox wagon whenever I choose. Your father, I know, will always be glad to have me. And if it so shocks you, there is not the slightest necessity of your coming with us.”

They glowered at each other, and he said, “You have twisted the question with the usual ability of your sex.”

She pondered as if seeking some particularly destructive retort. She ended by saying bluntly, “Did you know that we were going home next week?”

A flush came suddenly to his face. “No. Going home? Who? You?”

“Why, of course.” And then with an indolent air she continued, “I meant to have told you before this, but somehow it quite escaped me.”

He stammered, “Are — are you, honestly?”

She nodded. “Why, of course. Can’t stay here forever, you know.”

They were then silent for a long time.

At last Hawker said, “Do you remember what I told you yesterday?”

“No. What was it?”

He cried indignantly, “You know very well what I told you!”

“I do not.”

“No,” he sneered, “of course not! You never take the trouble to remember such things. Of course not! Of course not!”

“You are a very ridiculous person,” she vouchsafed, after eying him coldly.

He arose abruptly. “I believe I am. By heavens, I believe I am!” he cried in a fury.

She laughed. “You are more ridiculous now than I have yet seen you.”

After a pause he said magnificently, “Well, Miss Fanhall, you will doubtless find Mr. Hollanden’s conversation to have a much greater interest than that of such a ridiculous person.”

Hollanden approached them with the blithesome step of an untroubled man. “Hello, you two people, why don’t you — oh — ahem! Hold on, Billie, where are you going?”

“I — —” began Hawker.

“Oh, Hollie,” cried the girl impetuously, “do tell me how to do that slam thing, you know. I’ve tried it so often, but I don’t believe I hold my racket right. And you do it so beautifully.”

“Oh, that,” said Hollanden. “It’s not so very difficult. I’ll show it to you. You don’t want to know this minute, do you?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Well, come over to the court, then. Come ahead, Billie!”

“No,” said Hawker, without looking at his friend, “I can’t this morning, Hollie. I’ve got to go to work. Good-bye!” He comprehended them both in a swift bow and stalked away.

Hollanden turned quickly to the girl. “What was the matter with Billie? What was he grinding his teeth for? What was the matter with him?”

“Why, nothing — was there?” she asked in surprise.

“Why, he was grinding his teeth until he sounded like a stone crusher,” said Hollanden in a severe tone. “What was the matter with him?”

“How should I know?” she retorted.

“You’ve been saying something to him.”

“I! I didn’t say a thing.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Hollie, don’t be absurd.”

Hollanden debated with himself for a time, and then observed, “Oh, well, I always said he was an ugly-tempered fellow — —”

The girl flashed him a little glance.

“And now I am sure of it — as ugly-tempered a fellow as ever lived.”

“I believe you,” said the girl. Then she added: “All men are. I declare, I think you to be the most incomprehensible creatures. One never knows what to expect of you. And you explode and go into rages and make yourselves utterly detestable over the most trivial matters and at the most unexpected times. You are all mad, I think.”

“I!” cried Hollanden wildly. “What in the mischief have I done?”

“Look here,” said Hollanden, at length, “I thought you were so wonderfully anxious to learn that stroke?”

“Well, I am,” she said.

“Come on, then.” As they walked toward the tennis court he seemed to be plunged into mournful thought. In his eyes was a singular expression, which perhaps denoted the woe of the optimist pushed suddenly from its height. He sighed. “Oh, well, I suppose all women, even the best of them, are that way.”

“What way?” she said.

“My dear child,” he answered, in a benevolent manner, “you have disappointed me, because I have discovered that you resemble the rest of your sex.”

“Ah!” she remarked, maintaining a noncommittal attitude.

“Yes,” continued Hollanden, with a sad but kindly smile, “even you, Grace, were not above fooling with the affections of a poor country swain, until he don’t know his ear from the tooth he had pulled two years ago.”

She laughed. “He would be furious if he heard you call him a country swain.”

“Who would?” said Hollanden.

“Why, the country swain, of course,” she rejoined.

Hollanden seemed plunged in mournful reflection again. “Well, it’s a shame, Grace, anyhow,” he observed, wagging his head dolefully. “It’s a howling, wicked shame.”

“Hollie, you have no brains at all,” she said, “despite your opinion.”

“No,” he replied ironically, “not a bit.”

“Well, you haven’t, you know, Hollie.”

“At any rate,” he said in an angry voice, “I have some comprehension and sympathy for the feelings of others.”

“Have you?” she asked. “How do you mean, Hollie? Do you mean you have feeling for them in their various sorrows? Or do you mean that you understand their minds?”

Hollanden ponderously began, “There have been people who have not questioned my ability to — —”

“Oh, then, you mean that you both feel for them in their sorrows and comprehend the machinery of their minds. Well, let me tell you that in regard to the last thing you are wrong. You know nothing of anyone’s mind. You know less about human nature than anybody I have met.”

Hollanden looked at her in artless astonishment. He said, “Now, I wonder what made you say that?” This interrogation did not seem to be addressed to her, but was evidently a statement to himself of a problem. He meditated for some moments. Eventually he said, “I suppose you mean that I do not understand you?”

“Why do you suppose I mean that?”

“That’s what a person usually means when he — or she — charges another with not understanding the entire world.”

“Well, at any rate, it is not what I mean at all,” she said. “I mean that you habitually blunder about other people’s affairs, in the belief, I imagine, that you are a great philanthropist, when you are only making an extraordinary exhibition of yourself.”

“The dev — —” began Hollanden. Afterward he said, “Now, I wonder what in blue thunder you mean this time?”

“Mean this time? My meaning is very plain, Hollie. I supposed the words were clear enough.”

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “your words were clear enough, but then you were of course referring back to some event, or series of events, in which I had the singular ill fortune to displease you. Maybe you don’t know yourself, and spoke only from the emotion generated by the event, or series of events, in which, as I have said, I had the singular ill fortune to displease you.”

“How awf’ly clever!” she said.

“But I can’t recall the event, or series of events, at all,” he continued, musing with a scholarly air and disregarding her mockery. “I can’t remember a thing about it. To be sure, it might have been that time when — —”

“I think it very stupid of you to hunt for a meaning when I believe I made everything so perfectly clear,” she said wrathfully.

“Well, you yourself might not be aware of what you really meant,” he answered sagely. “Women often do that sort of thing, you know. Women often speak from motives which, if brought face to face with them, they wouldn’t be able to distinguish from any other thing which they had never before seen.”

“Hollie, if there is a disgusting person in the world it is he who pretends to know so much concerning a woman’s mind.”

“Well, that’s because they who know, or pretend to know, so much about a woman’s mind are invariably satirical, you understand,” said Hollanden cheerfully.

A dog ran frantically across the lawn, his nose high in the air and his countenance expressing vast perturbation and alarm. “Why, Billie forgot to whistle for his dog when he started for home,” said Hollanden. “Come here, old man! Well, ‘e was a nice dog!” The girl also gave invitation, but the setter would not heed them. He spun wildly about the lawn until he seemed to strike his master’s trail, and then, with his nose near to the ground, went down the road at an eager gallop. They stood and watched him.

“Stanley’s a nice dog,” said Hollanden.

“Indeed he is!” replied the girl fervently.

Presently Hollanden remarked: “Well, don’t let’s fight any more, particularly since we can’t decide what we’re fighting about. I can’t discover the reason, and you don’t know it, so — —”

“I do know it. I told you very plainly.”

“Well, all right. Now, this is the way to work that slam: You give the ball a sort of a lift — see! — underhanded and with your arm crooked and stiff. Here, you smash this other ball into the net. Hi! Look out! If you hit it that way you’ll knock it over the hotel. Let the ball drop nearer to the ground. Oh, heavens, not on the ground! Well, it’s hard to do it from the serve, anyhow. I’ll go over to the other court and bat you some easy ones.”

Afterward, when they were going toward the inn, the girl suddenly began to laugh.

“What are you giggling at?” said Hollanden.

“I was thinking how furious he would be if he heard you call him a country swain,” she rejoined.

“Who?” asked Hollanden.