at dinner miss whitcom was treated to an entrancing account of the assembly roast, viewed as an institution.
"of course," explained the rev. needham, "in the largest sense it's a religious function—a kind of general get-together, before the lecture season opens." it seemed a now more cautious way of reiterating that the church must advertise.
"but you see," contributed mrs. needham, "it was started by the goodmans. he's a clergyman from cleveland."
"it's their anniversary," added hilda.
thus, piecemeal, the momentous facts came out.
"anniversary?"
"yes, aunt marjie."
"let's see—how many is it this year?" asked mrs. needham turning to her husband.
"twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth, i think," he replied.
"oh, alf, do you think the goodmans have been married that long?"
"you know," declared miss whitcom, "all this is interesting but terribly mysterious. thanks, anna, i've had the pickles. i'm mystified by these[pg 231] goodmans from cleveland. so i understand the midsummer roast is in the nature of an anniversary party also?"
"well, yes," replied anna needham. "it was started, i guess, more than twenty years ago, even before we began coming up here. there were only a few families at first. alf, were the goodmans the first to begin coming up?"
"unless it was blakes," he suggested.
"but didn't the blakes begin coming because the goodmans did, alf?"
"well, maybe so. marjory, can't i help you to a little more of the lamb?"
"no, no," protested his sister-in-law. "i'm doing famously."
"alf, marjie will have some more potatoes, i'm sure."
"no. doing famously. never mind my plate, but do let's get it straight about the goodmans. thanks, hilda, i will have another biscuit. it all sounds terribly romantic!"
"yes, it is," hilda boldly assured her. "they always kiss right before everybody on their anniversary. and in the morning—"
"hilda!" cautioned her father, rather sternly.
the girl endeavoured to conceal her confusion by addressing herself very elaborately to the spreading of a biscuit.
"oh, now, alfred," remonstrated his sister-in-law, "you're worse than a war censor! since it's[pg 232] quite apparent the whole point knows about the kissing—anna, may i trouble you for another glass of water?—why shouldn't i be admitted to so very large a secret? there's surely room for one more, and you may pledge me to profound secrecy if you like. i'm dying to know what it is they do in the morning!"
hilda was gaining back her nerve. "they run away and have breakfast together at the hotel! that's what they do, aunt marjie!"
"oh, how charming!"
"yes, aunt marjie, they've done it every year since they were married!"
"they have? well, now, i call that pure romance! how coy! how it must carry them back! i think i'd really like to know the goodmans. there isn't such a great deal of pure romance available nowadays. people are too self-conscious."
"you'll meet them tonight," was the hope mrs. needham held out. and then, while her husband began carving fresh slices of lamb, and since the subject of the midsummer roast seemed about exhausted, anna went chattily on: "marjie, i must say i like mr. o'donnell real well."
"speaking of pure romance?" her sister sparklingly interpolated. "yes," she continued, "barrett's a good chap. used to be a bit egregious, you know, in the old days. but he's mellowed wonderfully. i—i'll let you in on a tremendous secret," she added, with mock breathlessness, and addressing herself to[pg 233] alfred behind her hand. "if he should happen to ask me again—i'm only saying if, you understand...." she finished eloquently in pantomime.
the rev. needham dropped his fork, but quickly recovered it and went on eating. he had just told himself that no matter what new monstrosity his sister-in-law might enunciate, he would magnificently let it pass. he would not appear to notice it. he was a clergyman. there was a certain dignity to be preserved in spite of everything. but good heavens, she had said it behind her hand!
"oh-h-h!" said hilda. she giggled.
"barrett is an old peach," continued miss whitcom quite brazenly. "he's stood by me through everything!"
the rev. needham nearly dropped his fork again. that awful word. everything! and she could be so damnably cool about it! was he narrow or old-fashioned to feel the way he did? yet would not feeling any other way be simply debauching oneself? ah, if, instead of his changing his own point of view, she might somehow drop off into a deep, painless slumber.... and never wake....
"well, then," said anna, who had kept perfectly her head, and was also rather thrilled, "i hope he will, marjie."
marjory looked dreamily off through the open window. a few birches caught the evening light mistily, and were dyed a delicate pink all along their slim white trunks. would he? ah, of course! and[pg 234] yet.... well—hm?... if not, why.... she mentally tossed her head. but what she told herself was not quite so haughty: "in that case i could hardly blame anybody but myself...."
by this time it might be said that the edge, at least, of hunger was taken off. all had eaten quite heartily, except louise. but even louise, though she dimly felt this was not as it should be, had found it possible to do at least a little nibbling. of course it would be out of the question to expect her to eat like the rest. it was another case of richard. probably she would not eat just like the rest for a good while to come. still, she would manage to keep going. one always did that in real life.
the rev. needham, however, was at length coming definitely to notice things. louise, some more of the lamb? no? surely more of the creamed carrots? but you're so fond of them! ah, yes. there were sharp and anxious glances in the direction of this baffling elder daughter. she wasn't eating right. and when any of the needhams didn't eat right, you could be very sure there was something wrong with the heart.
but now, anxious paternal orbs, let your troubled gaze shift to another plate—the next plate nearer your own. oh, man of god, what cheer? barry, another slice? ah, but never you mind that—no one stops at a second helping here! no more potatoes, either? tz, tz! oh, reverend sir, what a load to fetch back to your expectant flock in the fall! oh,[pg 235] if anything should happen now—now, just as life was becoming so kind! oh, now—and those prickles in the heels occurring with less and less frequency, even despite the upsetting presence of marjory! to have something go wrong—at his time of life.... to find the world running all to sixes and sevens....
oh, it must be a wild and overwhelming fancy, nothing more than that! barry (he rambled wildly in his mind) for mercy's sake more carrots? and aloud: "just a few more, barry?" good! no, no, one hasn't heaped them up. one only wants to be sure. and if there is no absolute assurance in this hard world, one so beset can be forgiven for taking refuge behind appearances—even behind appearances of one's own manufacture, in an extremity like this! yes, by hook or by crook one must contrive to keep the best foot foremost!
barry, as a matter of fact, was doing pretty well and feeling pretty wretched. he had got through the afternoon coolly enough on a kind of momentum generated partly by the decision that he had simply been a fool to dream such dreams, and partly by that hopeful, wise, desperate little word of counsel, that fine word, patience. but here, all at once, was a pang of reaction. all the old, warm, wistful love came rushing back. the ancient dreams of home and wife and children returned to taunt and torture him. only last night, on the deck of the steamer, with the moon so soft on the sea—ah, only last night....[pg 236] how he had let himself go! how he had even pictured things: the fireplace here, perhaps the piano there.... and how his cigar had gone out, and he hadn't noticed. but now he was sitting beside her at her father's table, and he did not know whether she loved him or not. and in his pocket was a box with a ring inside it—a ring for which there might never be any use.
mrs. needham noticed, too. but louise had already explained that she had a headache. the mother did not suspect that there was anything necessarily portentous in the air, and her heart beat placidly enough. her life seemed settling and settling. the current grew more and more tranquil. she had times of feeling so kind of still.
later the talk centred in arizona.
barry glanced at louise, and found her, as it happened, gazing sadly, quizzically, and with some abstraction at him. he looked away at once, trembling a little; and he carried on the theme:
"of course arizona strikes people in different ways. some find the flatness and the sand depressing."
"is it sand all over?" asked hilda.
"oh, dear no!" replied miss whitcom, with a vehemence which served to remind them all that she had been a pioneer in the cactus candy business and knew what she was talking about.
even the rev. needham contributed something to[pg 237] his younger daughter's enlightenment. "there are lots of trees along the irrigation ditches. barry, what kind of trees are they? i never can seem to remember."
"cottonwood, mostly," he answered. "the foliage is a very delicate green."
"oh, it must be lovely!" sighed hilda, who romantically saw herself walking along beside leslie beneath an everlasting row of the most beautiful trees anybody could possibly imagine. "how i should love to go out there!"
"yes," mused miss whitcom, "and we mustn't forget the broad fields of alfalfa—so dark—the very greenest green in all the world."
barry nodded slowly. "yes, the river valleys are always quite fertile. then comes the great arizona desert, with cacti and mesquite and greenwood and sage. and beyond all that"—he had begun a little monotonously, but came at length to speak in a rather rapt way—"beyond all that, the dim blue of the distance, the lonely peaks of the mountains...."
"grand old mountains!" added miss whitcom.
and it was odd, and no doubt sentimental, but the mountains all at once reminded her somehow of o'donnell. yes, o'donnell was something like a mountain. her heart quickened a little.
"oh, i know i should just love it!" cried hilda. and then she asked, in her almost breathless manner: "are there any birds in arizona?"
"birds?" repeated barry, a little abstractedly.[pg 238] "birds? oh, yes—all through the irrigated districts. there are orchards, you know. it's a fine sight to see them in full bloom. and the trees are alive with birds—meadow larks and mocking birds, mostly. and there are blackbirds, too. they sing in a wonderful chorus. and almost everywhere you'll hear the little mexican doves."
"oh, i remember the doves!" cried louise suddenly, forgetting her wretchedness.
he looked at her wistfully and solemnly. "some people say the doves have the sweetest song of all. there's a very plaintive note—you remember?"
"yes," she whispered thickly, avoiding his eyes.
the breath of fate seemed faintly to animate her having remembered the little mexican doves. "i think," he said, "they have the saddest song of any of the birds."
