第9章

He had never met a girl in any way like her--one who wanted so much and would give so little in return for it, who had an eel-like way of dodging hard-and-fast facts and who had made up her mind with all the zest and thoughtlessness of youth to mold life, when finally she could prove how much alive she was, into no other shape than the one which most appealed to her.She surprised and delighted him with her quick mental turns and twists, and although she sometimes made him catch his breath at her astoundingly frank expression of individualism, he told himself that she was still in the chrysalis stage and could only get a true and normal hang of things after rubbing shoulders with what she called life with a capital L.

Two weeks slipped away more quickly than these two young things had ever known them to go, and the daily meetings, utterly guileless and free from flirtation, were the best part of the day; but there was a new note in Joan's laugh as she swung out of the wood and went toward Martin one afternoon.

He caught it and looked anxiously at her."Is anything wrong?""There will be," she said."I just caught sight of Gleave among the trees.He was spying!""Why do you think so?"

"Oh, he never walks a yard unless he has to.I thought I saw him eying me rather queerly at lunch.I've been looking happy lately, and that's made him suspicious.""But what can he do?"

"What can't he do! Grandmother's one of the old-fashioned sort who thinks that a girl must never speak to a man without a chaperon.

They must have been a lively lot of young women in her time! Gleave will tell her that I've been coming here to meet you, and then there'll be a pretty considerable row."Martin was incredulous.He was in America in the twentieth century.

Young people did as they liked, and parents hardly ventured to remonstrate.He showed his teeth in the silent laugh that was characteristic of him."Oh, no! I'll be all right.Your grandfather knew my father.""That won't make any difference.I believe that in a sort of way he's jealous of my having a good time.Queer, isn't it? Are all old people like that? And as to Grandmother, this will give her one of the finest chances to let herself go that she's had since I set a curtain on fire with a candle; and when she does that, well, things fly, I assure you.""Are you worried about it?"

Joan gave a gesture of the most eloquent impatience."I have to be,"she said."You can't understand it, but I'm treated just as if Iwere a little girl in short frocks.It's simply appalling.

Everything I say and do and look is criticized from the point of view of 1850.Can't you imagine what will be thought of my sneaking out every afternoon to talk to a dangerous young man who has only just left Yale and lives among horses?"That was too much for Martin.His laugh echoed among the trees.

But Joan didn't make it a duet."It wouldn't be so funny to you if you stood in my shoes, Martin," she said."If I had gone to Grandmother and asked her if I might meet you,--and just think of my having to do that,--she would have been utterly scandalized.Now, having done this perfectly dreadful thing without permission, Ishall be hauled up on two charges,--deceit and unbecoming behavior,--and I shall be punished."

The boy wheeled around in amazement."You don't mean that?""Of course I mean it.Haven't I told you over and over again that these two dear but irritating old people look down at me from their awful pile of years and only see me as a child?""But what will they do to you?"

Joan shrugged her shoulders."Anything they like.I'm completely at their mercy.For Mother's sake I try to be patient and put up with it all.It's the only home I've got, and when you're dependent and haven't a cent to bless yourself with, you can't pack up and telephone for a cab and get out, can you? But it can't go on forever.Some day I shall answer back, and sparks will fly, and Ishall borrow money from the coachman, who's my only friend, and go to Alice Palgrave and ask her to put me up until Mother comes back.

I'm a queer case, Martin--that's the truth of it.In a book the other day I came across an exact description of myself.I could have laughed if it hadn't hit me so hard.It said: 'She was a super-modern in an early-Victorian frame, a pint of champagne in a little old cut-glass bottle, a gnome engine attached to a coach and pair.'"She picked up a stone and flung it down the hill.

One eager wild thought rushed through Martin's brain.It had made his blood race several times before, but he had thrown it aside because, during all their talks and walks, Joan had never once looked at him with anything but the eyes of a sister.As his wife he could free her, lift her out of her anomalous atmosphere and take her to the city to which her face was always turned.But he lacked the courage to speak and continued to hope that some day, by some miracle, she might become less superlatively neutral, less almost boyish in her way of treating him.He threw it aside again, tempted as he was to take advantage of a chance to bribe her into becoming his wife with an offer of life.Then too, she was only eighteen, and although he was twenty-four and in the habit of thinking of himself as a man of ripe years, he had to confess that the mere idea of marriage made him feel awfully young and scared.And so he said nothing and went on hoping.

Joan broke the silence."Everything will be different when Mother comes back," she said."I shall live with her then, and I give you my word I'll make up for lost time.So who cares? There are three good hours before I face Grandmother.Let's enjoy ourselves."