Silver Wings (9 page)

Neddy sulkily took the rusty can and stepped across the wet stones above the stream, handing out grudgingly a handful of squirming angle worms in a reluctant paw, with a look of disgust on his disappointed countenance.

Diana bravely selected a squirming worm with the tips of her fingers and endeavored nonchalantly to apply it to a fierce-looking hook she had extracted from her creel.

“Bait the lady’s hook for her, pard,” ordered the man, dropping a silent line into the cool dark depths again.

Neddy skillfully adjusted the worm with his grubby fingers and made good his exit from that side of the stream, slithered up beside the man, and turned his back sharply toward the girl.

Diana tried to drop her line into the water silently, nonchalantly, as the man had done, and a deep quiet settled down upon the trio.

Little strange flies with gauzy wings skated over the surface of the water like phantoms, soft spots of light played hide-and-seek across the pool, and the silver-throated thrushes began to spill their music from the treetop again. The girl sat and waited, and something of the quiet miracle of the woods stole into her fleshy little soul and brought a wonder.

She looked across at the silent man, his strong face bent steadily to the stream, as if that were the only thing in the universe that were of any moment now. She looked through her golden lashes, with the hidden jade light in her eyes, but she seemed to be looking deep into the stream, just as the man and the boy were doing, and waiting.

A long time they sat so, while the thrushes spilled their music down the silences and the tall tree played its lute. And then a dimple dotted the water, and the man’s line swung up another gallant fish.

The boy did not whoop this time. He only grunted sulkily, mannishly, as if it were a matter of little moment, a matter to be quite expected and not to be rejoiced about. But there was a set of satisfaction about his young shoulders and the round cheek and chin that showed as he sat twisted away from the intruder.

No period in her life that Diana could remember had ever impressed or thrilled her as did that quiet cool afternoon she spent in utter silence, with a good-looking, strange young man and an angry boy across the stream from her, neither of whom looked at her nor spoke for whole half hours together. She had not thought that any young man could be indifferent like that.

But she was game. She sat on her rock in silence and held her borrowed rod with a hand that ached from unaccustomedness, and caught nothing at all. Moment by moment, hour after hour passed, and the shadows grew deep in the woods. Were they never going home? She was determined not to go till they did. The crowd would be home from the country club by now. They would be wondering where she was. She could tell by the little wristwatch that was partly visible under her green sleeve that it was time to dress for dinner, but she held her ground. She meant to arrive at the house attended by the hero, in full view of an admiring multitude, even if she had to dress hurriedly later for the evening.

At last the man spoke.

“Haven’t we some grub, kid? I’m getting hungry, aren’t you?”

The boy produced a grungy cracker box and opened it.

“We’ll have to divide with the lady, you know, pard,” said the pleasant voice of the man.

“Oh, heck!” said the boy with a more than audible sigh. “I s’pose so, if you say so.” He eyed the cake longingly.

“I have a box of chocolates,” said the lady sweetly.

“That might help,” said the man. “How about it, pard?”

“I’d ruther have cake,” said Ned grumpily.

“But I’d rather have chocolates, so suppose you have my share of cake, and I have your share of chocolates? How about it?”

Ned’s smile came muddily out, and he looked adoringly into the man’s face. The girl watching with the jade-gold lights in her eyes felt a sudden pang of jealousy for the bond between these two whose afternoon she was distinctly conscious she had spoiled. It hurt her pride terribly to acknowledge it to herself, but she knew that they would both rather have been left alone. She had never met with quite such a slap in the face before. Men usually wanted her on all occasions.

They divided the cake and the chocolates amicably, and sat pleasantly munching.

“I thought fairies had come true again,” said the man suddenly, with a rare smile. “You looked just like a wood nymph out of a fairy tale.”

She looked up, astonished, almost embarrassed. The men she knew did not talk of fairy tales. They never had read any. What kind of a man was this, in this twentieth-century modern world, talking of fairies and nymphs?

“But now,” said the man, when the last chocolate and crumb of cake was finished, “see, kid, the lady has caught no fish. We must get the lady a catch before we go home. This isn’t polite at all for us men to catch all the fish.”

Ned put his tongue in his cheek and eyed his idol reflectively.

“Hand me that can of bait, son,” he went on, leaning over and pulling up his own line.

Carefully he arranged the bait on his own hook, swung himself across the stepping-stones, and placed the rod in the lady’s hand, taking her own rod from her and laying it aside.

“There!” said he. “Try this. Drop it so, down there!”

Ned, face downward on the opposite rock, watched scornfully—proud of his partner, yet jealous that a moment should be wasted on a fool girl.

And sure enough, a fish did bite and in great excitement was landed on the rock, a splendid fat little bass with glistening pinkish-gold sides. Diana was filled with awe and was half afraid of the slippery, scaly creature, for to tell the truth, she had never gone fishing before. She had filched the rod and the creel from the house, and sacrificed a Paris creation for the occasion, and now she was afraid of her fish!

On the whole, Diana was more than subdued as she walked meekly back with the two fishermen, carrying her own fish gingerly from the string they had put it on.

The sun was down when they came out onto the airstrip and the twilight beginning to fall. Lights were streaming out from the great house as they entered the garden gate, and the girls in dance frocks were gathering out on the terrace.

“Here she comes!” announced Caroline loudly. “Girls! See what’s here! She’s got him! She went fishing after all. Leave it to Diana. Oh, but she’s the sly bird!”

“Fish!” yelled Doris. “She’s really caught a fish! Or else she bribed somebody to let her carry it.”

John Dunleith stood back in his brown flannel shirt and his khaki trousers, with his string of fish, and his nice gray eyes on them all.

“Tell ’em she caught it herself, pard,” he murmured in Neddy’s ear, and Neddy obediently swaggered forward.

“Naw, yer all wrong this time. She caught it herself all righty,” he explained, doing the honors in his best style and then added, “Say, I guess you all don’t know my cousin John yet, do ya? Meet the gang, pard!” And he swept a comprehensive gesture about the group.

It was not till then that Mrs. Whitney hurried out and made apologies.

“Oh, is that you, John? I suppose you’ve met all these young people, haven’t you? We have searched the house to find you. I suppose Neddy carried you off. I hope you haven’t been too bored. Oh, Diana, you don’t mean you went fishing, too? How kind of you. But you were so tired—”

A warning look from Caroline stopped her mother’s tongue for the instant, and Diana broke in in the nick of time.

“Oh, I’ve had a most glorious time, Mother Whitney. I never knew it was so restful to fish, and to think I’ve brought you home a fish! Will you have it cooked for breakfast?”

“Of course, child. And now run in quick and change. Dinner is served at once. Hurry, please, won’t you, John?”

And this was all the introduction this gray-eyed nephew of the house received. Amory, watching from her window of vantage, was indignant for him. But a moment later there came a message from Mrs. Whitney. Amory’s presence was required at the table for dinner, as Mr. Theodore had not yet returned, and the table was already set and could not be changed without much trouble.

So Amory flew into her white chiffon, pinned a pink silk rose on her shoulder, fastened her little string of pearls about her throat, and stepped into her white slippers as she smoothed her hair. She arrived rather breathlessly and a bit scared in the big reception hall just as they all were going in to dinner.

The hostess made scant ceremony of the introductions. “My new secretary, Miss Lorrimer, girls,” and most of the young people merely nodded and went on talking, but it was a relief to know that it was over and she was occupying a normal position before the guests.

She found to her surprise that she was seated beside John Dunleith and that Diana was far at the other end, beside their host, whom Amory now saw for the first time.

It was rather overpowering, that first dinner, for Amory was not accustomed to large affairs, and to manage all those spoons and forks and not do anything wrong was job enough for any secretary fresh from a sweet, plain home in a little country village.

But it was to John Dunleith that she owed her peace of mind during that dinner. He simply would not let her shrink into herself as she began to do the moment she sat down. He acted like a friend and brother. He kept up a pleasant vein of friendly talk and asked her questions about the different people at the table. When he found that she was as ignorant as he, he made that a bond of friendliness between them and began to chat of affairs in the world in which everyone was interested, and then of books.

She perceived that he had a vein of humor running through everything he said, and so the dinner went on, and she lost her self-consciousness and began really to enjoy herself.

Then, looking up, she caught the wide glance of Diana Dorne’s blue eyes upon her. For they were sea-blue tonight, like the exquisite frock she was wearing, a mist of blue netting that set off her lovely white shoulders like the setting of a jewel. Wide-eyed innocence was the part she was playing tonight, though her cheeks were rouged and her lips were redder than nature had made them. But the jewels she wore were simple and flashed decorously, making her by far the most distinguished girl at the table.

Amory wondered that her companion did not seem to notice Diana at all. He was giving all his attention to herself, and really, it was pleasant.

Of course it was interesting to be down among them all, hearing what they said and taking part in the scene, but she was not really a part, and Amory wished in her heart that she didn’t have to be there. She could enjoy a talk with this gray-eyed man at her side, and she could enjoy her morning’s meeting with the young flier on his field, but all those girls ignoring her so sweetly did cut, in spite of her very best philosophy. Why was it that girls always did things like that? It would be so much pleasanter if she did not have to sit here and eat with them all, knowing that they all knew she was merely here to fill up an empty seat. Or was that all? Had Mrs. Whitney some quiet idea of keeping her nephew from Diana Dorne’s clutches, and of using her for the purpose of keeping the two apart? Diana looked as if she might suspect that also, for as often as Amory looked up, she saw the girl in blue watching her.

And now the talk turned upon the aviator. It was Mr. Whitney who asked about him.

“Why, I thought Ted was to be here!” he said as he looked down the length of the table.

“He was,” said Caroline grievously, “but he flew!”

“Flew?” said Mr. Whitney. “Not another record hop, I hope?”

“Who knows?” said his wife, laughing. “He left one of his characteristic enigmatic notes. It is on my desk in the library. You can study it out at your leisure. Doubtless the morning paper will inform us soon, if you can’t unravel the mystery. But he may come in any minute now, you know. He promised to be back for dinner if he could. I believe he has a date with Diana here for the evening, so there is still hope.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Diana, “he’ll be back. He is down for the first dance with me. He ought to be here any minute now!” and she shot a glance down the table at the fisherman-preacher, but John Dunleith did not lift so much as an eyelash in her direction. He went on quoting poetry to Amory, and some of it was exceedingly comical. It mimicked so well some of the things the people at the table were saying and the way they looked and acted. Amory could hardly keep from choking in her wild desire to laugh at him. He certainly was rare company and could say the keenest things without cracking a smile, sometimes scarcely moving his lips. How utterly surprised the whole table would be if they could only hear him! It really was most interesting to listen to him.

But Amory’s mind was not wholly on what he was saying, nor yet on the scene about her. She was thinking of two little silver wings hidden away in her suitcase upstairs, and of the young aviator who had sailed away so gaily that morning and left them with her.

Where was he now, with his boyish grin and his blue eyes? Was he sailing the skies on his way back or preparing to enter into unknown perils over uncharted tracks?

And what would all those people at the table say if they knew about the little silver wings that she had safely hidden away? She could not get away from the consciousness that she had them, and that he had her Testament—her little old Testament that she had had since childhood. It was an odd exchange, and she could scarcely believe that it had ever happened, although it was not yet much more than twelve hours ago.

The talk drifted back to the flier once more as they rose from the table at last.

“Let’s go out and see if we can sight him,” proposed Caroline. “I thought I heard a plane just now. He usually gets back from New York about this time or sooner.”

They drifted outside into the moonlit night, and suddenly Amory, who had drifted along with the rest, with John Dunleith just behind her, saw that Diana Dorne had somehow got between them and was smiling up into the man’s face.

“I haven’t thanked you yet,” she said prettily.

John Dunleith looked down pleasantly, as he might have looked at a little child who had spoken to him.