Iole Part 5

Presently she straightened up where she was kneeling in the long gra.s.s and stretched her arms. Then, still kneeling, she gazed curiously at Wayne with all the charm of a friendly wild thing unafraid.

"Shall we play tennis?" she asked.

"Certainly," said Wayne, startled.

"Come, then," she said, picking up her basket in one hand and extending the other to Wayne.

He took the fresh, cool fingers, and turned scarlet. Once his glance sneaked toward Briggs, but that young man was absorbed in fishing for brook trout with a net! Oh, ye little fishes! with a _net_!

Wayne's brain seemed to be swarming with glittering pink-winged thoughts all singing. He walked on air, holding tightly to the hand of his G.o.ddess, seeing nothing but a blur of green and sunshine. Then a clean-cut idea stabbed him like a stiletto: was this Vanessa or Iole?

And, to his own astonishment, he asked her quite naturally.

"Iole," she said, laughing. "Why?"

"Thank goodness," he said irrationally.

"But why?" she persisted curiously.

"Briggs--Briggs--" he stammered, and got no further. Perplexed, his G.o.ddess walked on, thoughtful, pure-lidded eyes searching some reasonable interpretation for the phrase, "Briggs--Briggs." But as Wayne gave her no aid, she presently dismissed the problem, and bade him select a tennis bat.

"I do hope you play well," she said. Her hope was comparatively vain; she batted Wayne around the court, drove him wildly from corner to corner, stampeded him with volleys, lured him with lobs, and finally left him reeling dizzily about, while she came around from behind the net, saying, "It's all because you have no tennis shoes. Come; we'll rest under the trees and console ourselves with chess."

Under a group of huge silver beeches a stone chess-table was set embedded in the moss; and Iole indolently stretched herself out on one side, chin on hands, while Wayne sorted weather-beaten basalt and marble chess-men which lay in a pile under the tree.

She chatted on without the faintest trace of self-consciousness the while he arranged the pieces; then she began to move. He took a long time between each move; but no sooner did he move than, still talking, she extended her hand and shoved her piece into place without a fraction of a second's hesitation.

When she had mated him twice, and he was still gazing blankly at the mess into which she had driven his forces, she sat up sideways, gathering her slim ankles into one hand, and cast about her for something to do, eyes wandering over the sunny meadow.

"We had horses," she mused; "we rode like demons, bareback, until trouble came."

"Trouble?"

"Oh, not trouble--poverty. So our horses had to go. What shall we do--you and I?" There was something so subtly sweet, so exquisitely innocent in the coupling of the p.r.o.nouns that a thrill pa.s.sed completely through Wayne, and probably came out on the other side.

"I know what I'm going to do," he said, drawing a note-book and a pencil from his pocket and beginning to write, holding it so she could see.

"Do you want me to look over your shoulder?" she asked.

"Please."

She did; and it affected his penmanship so that the writing grew wabbly.

Still she could read:

(_Telegram_)

TO SAILING MASTER, YACHT THENDARA, BAR HARBOR:

Put boat out of commission. I may be away all summer.

WAYNE.

"How far is it to the station?" asked Wayne, turning to look into her eyes.

"Only five miles," she said. "I'll walk with you if you like. Shall I?"

IV

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"Wealth," observed the poet, waving his heavy white hand, "is a figure of speech, Mr. Wayne. Only by the process of elimination can one arrive at the exquisite simplicity of poverty--care-free poverty. Even a single penny is a burden--the flaw in the marble, the fly in the amber of perfection. Cast it away and enter Eden!" And joining thumb and forefinger, he plucked a figurative copper from the atmosphere, tossed it away, and wiped his fingers on his handkerchief.

"But--" began Wayne uneasily.

"Try it," smiled the poet, diffusing sweetness; "try it. Dismiss all thoughts of money from your mind."

"I do," said Wayne, somewhat relieved. "I thought you meant for me to chuck my securities overboard and eat herbs."

"Not in your case--no, not in your case. _I_ can do that; I have done it. No, your sacred mission is simply to forget that you are wealthy.

That is a very precious thought, Mr. Wayne--remain a Croesus and forget it! Not to eliminate your _wealth_, but eliminate all _thought_ of it.

Very, very precious."

"Well, I never think about things like that except at a directors'

meeting," blurted out the young fellow. "Perhaps it's because I've never had to think about it."

The poet sighed so sweetly that the atmosphere seemed to drip with the saccharine injection.

"I wish," ventured Wayne, "that you would let me mention the subject of business"--the poet shook his head indulgently--"just to say that I'm not going to foreclose." He laid a packet of legal papers in the poet's hand.

"Hush," smiled Guilford, "this is not seemly in the house beautiful....

_What_ was it you said, Mr. Wayne?"

"I? I was going to say that I just wanted--wanted to stay here--be your guest, if you'll let me," he said honestly. "I was cruising--I didn't understand--Briggs--Briggs--" He stuck.

"Yes, Briggs," softly suggested the poet, spraying the night air with more sweetness.

"Briggs has spoken to you about--about your daughter Vanessa. You see, Briggs is my closest friend; his happiness is--er--important to me.

I want to see Briggs happy; that's why I want to stay here, just to see Briggs happy. I--I love Briggs. You understand me, don't you, Mr.

Guilford?"

The poet breathed a dulcet breath. "Perfectly," he murmured. "The contemplation of Mr. Briggs' happiness eliminates all thoughts of self within you. By this process of elimination you arrive at happiness yourself. Ah, the thought is a very precious one, my young friend, for by elimination only can we arrive at perfection. Thank you for the thought; thank you. You have given me a very, very precious thought to cherish."

"I--I have been here a week," muttered Wayne. "I thought--perhaps--my welcome might be outworn----"

"In the house beautiful," murmured the poet, rising and waving his heavy white hand at the open door, "welcome is eternal." He folded his arms with difficulty, for he was stout, and one hand clutched the legal papers; his head sank. In profound meditation he wandered away into the shadowy house, leaving Wayne sitting on the veranda rail, eyes fixed on a white shape dimly seen moving through the moonlit meadows below.