Part 8

"Good. I hope it's a duel between the two principals. If it is I'm going to tamper with the weapons and see that each injures himself past help. I'm getting a little weary of playing the hospitable host to a trio of would-bes."

"Listen. We'll entertain them all at once for a week, with some extra girls, and Judith and Wayne, and then we'll announce that we're not at home for a month."

"All at once—a house-party?" Anthony sat up and laughed uproariously. "I've tremendous faith in you, love, but where in the name of all the French sardines that ever were dovetailed would you put such a crowd?"

"I've a practical plan. Louis Lockwood belongs to a fishing club that spends every August up in Canada. They have a big tent, twenty by twenty-five, for he told me so the other day. He would get it for us; we would put it out in the orchard, close to the river. You and Wayne, and Roger and Louis, and Stevens Cathcart could sleep down there, and I could easily take care of Judith and Suzanne Gerard and Marie Dresser, here in the house. Rachel should stay here, too. And Auntie Dingley would send down Mary McKaim to cook for us, I'm sure."

"That's not so bad. But why Rachel—when you have so little room?"

"Because I want her to have all the fun; because if I don't keep her here she will be running away half the time; and because—"

"Now comes the real reason," observed Anthony sagely.

"I don't want the other girls thinking she has the unfair advantage of taking a man away from the party every evening to walk down home with her."

"Wise little chaperon. I can see Roger and Louis now, glaring at each other as the hour approaches for her departure."

"What do you think of my plan? It's only a plan, you know, Tony—subject to your approval."

"Diplomat!" murmured Anthony, reaching up one arm and drawing it about her shoulders. "You know you're safe to have my approval when you put it in that tone. Well, provided you can figure out the finances—and I know you wouldn't propose it if you hadn't done that already—I don't see any objection. On one condition, though, Julie, mind you—on one condition."

"Name it."

"Of course, I can only be here evenings during your house party. So my condition is that I have you and the home all to myself for my vacation afterward. Not a wooer nor a chum admitted. No overdressed women out from town, taking afternoon tea—no invitations to lonesome husbands out to dinner. Just you and I. Did you ever imagine life in the rural localities would be so gay, anyhow? I want to go fishing with you—tramping through the woods with you—sitting out here on the porch with you—in short, have you all to myself—and"—he turned completely about, kneeling below her on the step, crushing her in both arms so vigorously that he stopped her breath—"eat—you—up!"

"What a prospect," she cried softly, when she found herself partially released. "Are you sure you need a vacation, just for that?"

"Certain of it. I've had to share you with other people all the year—and now I've got to give you up to a jealous lovers' assemblage. So after that, mind you, I have my satisfaction."

When Doctor Barnes was told of the plan he looked gloomy. "Going to ask Lockwood?" he inquired at once.

"Of course," assented Juliet promptly.

"I don't see any 'of course' about it."

"What would Marie Dresser do to me if I didn't invite him?"

"He doesn't care for her—"

"Oh, yes, he does. Why, last winter he seemed to be on the point of asking her to marry him. Everybody expected the announcement any day."

"Last winter and this summer are two different propositions."

"Marie doesn't think so."

"She'll get mightily undeceived, then. Whom else are you asking?"

"Stevens Cathcart."

The doctor groaned. "Is this a dose you're fixing for me? I'm going to be too busy—I can't come."

"Very well," said Juliet placidly. She was sewing, upon the porch, and the doctor sat on the step.

He looked up with a grimace. "I suppose you think I'll be out on the next train after the rest arrive."

"I certainly do, Dr. Roger Williams Barnes."

"I presume you are inviting Suzanne?" he queried.

"Why not?"

"No reason why not. Cathcart admires her immensely—or did, before he began to cultivate this place."

Juliet laughed. "Suzanne would never forgive you if she heard that."

"By-the-way," said the doctor slowly, "has she ever met—Miss Redding?"

"No."

He meditated for several minutes in silence, while Juliet sewed, glancing from time to time at one of the most attractive masculine profiles with which she was familiar. He was not as handsome a man as Louis Lockwood, but every line of his face stood for strength, not without some pretensions to good looks. He looked up at length and straight at her.

"Would you mind telling me," he began, "just what you intend to effect with this combination? I never gave you credit, you know, Juliet, for wanting to manage Fate, and I don't believe it now."

"No, I don't want to manage Fate," said Juliet, smiling over her work, "but I admit I want two things: I want you to see Rachel Redding beside Suzanne Gerard, and—I want Rachel to see you beside Louis Lockwood and—Suzanne."

"I see," said the doctor grimly. "In other words, you want your protégée to have fair play."

"Just that," Juliet answered, more gravely now. "I think lots of you, Roger, and well of you—you know I do—and yet—"

"And yet—"

"Let me guard my girl. She's not like the others, and you and Louis are making it tremendously hard for her between you."

"You seem to be planning to make it infinitely harder."

Juliet shook her head. "Trust me, Roger, please."

"All right, I will," promised the doctor. "But just assure me that you're on my side."

"I'm on nobody's side," was all the comfort he got.

Juliet's invitations received delighted acceptances, though Wayne Carey and Doctor Barnes would be able to come out only for the nights—in time, however, for late and festive suppers outdoors. The tent in the orchard, with its comfortable bunks, was accepted by all the men with enthusiasm.

"And to satisfy the men is the essential thing, you know, Tony," Juliet had observed sagely when she saw their pleasure in their quarters. "The girls will accept any crowding together if they have a mirror and room to tie a sash in, as long as devoted admirers are not wanting."

The moment Miss Dresser and Miss Gerard saw Miss Rachel Redding—to quote Anthony—the fun began. Mrs. Wayne Carey had already met her, and had been carefully coached by Juliet as to the bearing she must assume toward Juliet's new friend. So when Marie and Suzanne began to inquire of Judith the latter was prepared to answer them.

"She's a beauty in her way, isn't she?" Judith asserted. "Juliet's immensely fond of her, I should judge."

"But who is she?" demanded Suzanne.

"A neighbour, a country girl, a school and college girl, a comparatively poor girl—and a lucky girl, for Juliet likes her."

"Have the men met her before?"

"Goodness, yes. Haven't you heard how they beg invitations home to dinner of Anthony, just to see her?" Judith was enjoying the situation. This statement, however, was no part of Juliet's coaching.

"I didn't see anything particularly attractive about her," said Marie promptly. "She's a demure thing. One wouldn't think she ever lifted those long lashes to look at a man—but that's just the kind. Awfully plainly dressed."

"That's her style," said Suzanne. "These poor, pretty girls are once in a while just clever enough to make capital out of their poverty by wearing simply fetching things in pale gray dimity and dark blue lawn and sunbonnets. Stevens Cathcart would be just the kind to be carried away with her. Roger Barnes wouldn't look at her twice."

"Louis might pretend to admire her, to please Juliet," admitted Marie. "He has a way of making every girl think he is in love with her—and he is, to a certain extent. But it's never serious."

Whether it were serious in this instance Miss Dresser soon had opportunity to judge.

After dinner that first night Anthony proposed taking all his guests out upon the river in a big flat-boat he had rented. But when he made up the party Rachel was not to be found.

"I'm afraid she's gone home," said Juliet.

"I'll run down and see," proposed Lockwood instantly, and was suiting the action to the word when Cathcart got off ahead of him.

"I'll have her back presently," he called as he dashed down the road. "You people go on—we'll catch you."

"We'll wait for you," Lockwood shouted after him.

"Why should we wait?" demurred Marie, beginning to walk away toward the river.

"If we don't he's liable not to find it convenient to catch up with us," Lockwood retorted.

"If they prefer their own company why not let them have it?" she said over her shoulder.

"Run along, Louis," murmured Doctor Barnes. "One girl at a time."

He turned to Juliet. "Shall we go?" he said.

Anthony caught his glance, and, laughing, turned to Suzanne. "Will you console an old married man, Miss Gerard?" he inquired.

But when Cathcart reappeared, which he did very soon, Rachel was not with him. "She said she had to stay with her mother," he explained in a tone which so closely resembled a growl that everybody laughed.

"Bear up, Stevie, boy," chaffed Wayne Carey. "I'm confident she likes you, but she may not like you all the time, you know. They seldom do."

XVII.—RACHEL CAUSES ANXIETY

In spite of all Juliet's efforts to bring about Rachel's presence as one of her guests she found herself unable to accomplish it. Whenever she was needed for help Rachel was never absent, but the moment she was free the girl was off, and that quite without the appearance of running away. The men of the party followed her, but they were not allowed to remain. The girls, confident that her disappearances were part of a very deep game, begged her to stay; it was useless. Rachel's excuses were ready, her manner charmingly regretful in a quiet way, but stay she would not.

Dr. Roger Barnes waylaid her one evening as she was vanishing down the willow-bordered path by the brook, leading to her own home.

"Here you go again," he began discontentedly. "I wish I knew why."

Rachel paused. It was difficult to do otherwise with a large and determined figure blocking a very narrow path.

"I have ever so many things waiting at home for me to do."

"At nine o'clock in the evening?"

"At whatever hour I am through at Mrs. Robeson's."

"I wish I could imagine something of what they are. It might relieve my mind a little."

"Why, I will tell you," said Rachel with great appearance of frankness. "I have to do some mending for mother, read the evening paper for father, and set the bread. Then the clothes must be sprinkled for ironing in the morning."

The doctor studied her face in the dimming light. "Who washed the clothes?" he asked bluntly.

"Do you think you ought to ask?" said Rachel.

"Yes. I'm in the habit of asking questions."

"Of patients—"

"Of everybody I care for. You don't have to answer, but if you don't I shall know who did the washing."

"Yes, I did it," said Rachel steadily. "It is easily done."

"And then you came over here and got breakfast?"

"Not at all. I helped Mrs. Robeson and Mary McKaim get it. Doctor Barnes, do you know that you are standing directly in my path?"

"Certainly," said the doctor. "It's what I'm here for."

"Then I shall have to go back and take the road home."

"If you do you will evade me only to encounter another man. Lockwood's keeping a ferret's eye on the Robeson house door; and I think Cathcart is already patrolling the road in front of your house."

The girl turned. "You are making me feel very absurd," she said. "I want to go home, Doctor Barnes. Please let me pass you."

"May I go with you?"

"I would rather not."

"Well, that's frank," he said, amusement and chagrin struggling for the uppermost. "I wonder I don't stalk angrily away—"

"I wish you would."

Roger Barnes threw back his head and laughed. "I wish you would give some other girls a leaf out of your book," he said. "The more you turn me down the more ardently I long to be with you; while the opposite sort of thing—I'll tell you, Miss Redding, if you want to be rid of me try these tactics: Say with a languishing smile, 'Oh, Doctor Barnes, won't you take me a little way down this lovely path?' Perhaps that will accomplish your ends. I've often felt an instant desire not to do the thing I'm begged to."

"'Oh, Doctor Barnes,'" said Rachel Redding—and he caught the mischief in her tone—even Rachel could be mischievous, as Juliet had said—"'won't you take me a little way down this lovely path?'"

"With the greatest pleasure in the world," replied the doctor promptly, and stood aside to let her pass him. Whereupon she slipped by him, and before he could realise that she had gone was running fleetly away in the twilight down the winding, willow-hung path. With an exclamation he was off after her, but though he dashed at the pace of a hunter through the intricacies of the way he presently discovered that he was following nothing but the summer breeze rustling the willow leaves and wafting into his face the breath of new-cut hay, the aftermath of late July. He stopped at length and stared about him, baffled and half angry.

"There never was a girl like you," he muttered. "If you are deliberately trying to make men mad to get you you are succeeding infuriatingly well. If I catch you to-night it will be your fault if I tell you what I think of you. I'll tell you now, for I suppose you are hiding somewhere in this undergrowth till I give it up and you can get away home. You shall listen to me if you are here, for you can't help yourself."

He was speaking in a low, even tone, walking slowly along the path and peering sharply into the bushes on both sides. Suddenly he stood still. He had detected a spot beside a low-hanging willow which showed nearly white in the deepening darkness. Rachel was wearing white to-night, he remembered. His heart quickened its paces and he paused an instant to get past a certain tightening in his throat.

Then he bent forward and whispered: "If that's not you there I can say what I like, and there'll be some satisfaction in that. If you'll speak now you may save yourself, but if you don't I've no reason to think it's you, and so I can say—"

There was a sharply perceptible noise farther down the path toward the Redding home. Barnes turned quickly and stood up straight, waiting. Footsteps came rapidly along the path—no footsteps of hers, evidently. A man's voice humming a tune grew momentarily plainer—then the voice stopped humming and began to sing in a subdued but clear and fine barytone:

"Down through the lane Come I again Seeking, my love, for you; Run to me, dear, Losing all fear, Love and—"

The voice stopped. Two men's figures confronted each other in an extremely narrow path. It was not too dark yet for each to be plainly recognisable to the other.

"Hallo—that you, Lockwood?"

"Hi there, Roger Barnes; what you doing here? Fishing?"

"Looking for something I've lost."

"Getting pretty dark to find it. Something valuable?"

"Rather. Think I'll give it up for to-night."

"Too bad. Nice night." Lockwood was hastening toward the end of the path which came out near Anthony's house. Barnes looked after him grimly.

"That voice of yours, young man," he thought, "handicaps me from the start. Now, if I could just warble my emotions that way—"

He turned and peered again at the white place by the tree. He moved stealthily toward it, and ascertained presently that it was not what it seemed. He rose to his feet and walked rapidly down the path to the Redding house. When he came in sight of it he saw that the kitchen windows were lighted and that a man stood with his arm on the sill of one of them. Silhouetted against the light were the familiar outlines of Stevens Cathcart. As Barnes stood staring amazedly at this, a slender figure in white came to the window, and in the stillness he could hear the quiet voice:

"Please let me close the window, Mr. Cathcart. Thank you—no—and good-night."

"'Three Men in a Boat,' by Rachel Redding," murmured the doctor to himself, and slipped back to the willow path, from which he at length emerged to join the group upon the porch—which then, it may be observed, held for the first time that night its full complement of men.

Three big Chinese lanterns shed a softly pleasant light upon the porch and the lawn at its foot. Suzanne Gerard and Marie Dresser made a most attractive picture, one in a low chair, the other upon a pile of cushions on the step. Suzanne lightly picked a mandolin. Marie was singing softly:

"Down through the lane Come I again Seeking, my love, for you; Run to me, dear, Losing all fear, Love and my life will be true."

It was one of the songs of the summer—foolish words, seductive music—everybody hummed it half the time. Roger Barnes smiled to himself, remembering where he had heard it last.

"Come here and give account," commanded Suzanne the instant he appeared. "Every unmarried man vanished the moment twilight fell. You are the last to show your face. I challenge you, one and all, to swear that you have not been within sight of a certain small brown house at the foot of the hill since supper."

Her voice was music; in her eyes was laughter. Marie sang on, pointing her words with smiles at one and another of the culprits.

From his seat on the threshold of the door, where his head rested against Juliet's knee as she sat behind him, Anthony laughed to himself. Then he turned his head and whispered to his wife: "Feel the claws through the velvet? Poor boys, they have my sympathy."

XVIII.—AN UNKNOWN QUANTITY

"Rachel," said Juliet decisively, next morning, "to-night is the last of my house party, and I refuse to let you off. I'm asking ten or twelve more people out from town. You must spend this evening with my guests, or forfeit my friendship."

She was smiling as she said it, but her tone was not to be denied.

"If that is the alternative," Rachel answered, returning the smile with an affectionate look of a sort which neither Louis Lockwood nor Stevens Cathcart nor Dr. Roger Barnes had ever seen on her face—though they had dreamed of it—"of course I shall stay. But I'll tell you frankly I would rather not."

"Why not, Rachel?"

"I think you know why not, Mrs. Robeson," Rachel answered.

"Yes, I know why not," admitted Juliet. "Girls are queer things, Ray. They defeat their own ends all the time—lots of them. Suzanne and Marie are dear girls, with ever so many nice things about them, but they don't—they don't know enough not to pursue, chase, run down, the object of their desires. And, of course, the object, being run down panting, into a corner, dodges, evades, gets out and runs away. Rachel, dear, what are you going to wear to-night?"

"My best frock," said Rachel, smiling.

"Which is—"

"White."

"Cut out at the neck?"

"A little."

"Short in the sleeves?"

"To the elbows. It was my sophomore evening dress."

"It will be all right, I know. Rachel, wear a white rose in those low black braids of yours—will you?"

"No, I think I won't," refused Rachel.

"Why not?"

Rachel did not answer. Into her cool cheek crept a tinge of rebellious, telltale colour.

Juliet studied her a minute in silence, then came up to her and laying both hands on her shoulders looked up into her eyes.

"You try to 'play fair,' don't you, dear?" she said heartily, "whatever the rest may do. And whatever they may do, Rachel Redding, don't you care. It's not your fault that they are as jealous of you as girls can be and keep sweet outside. I'd be jealous of you myself if—" She paused, laughing.

"When you grow jealous," said Rachel, "it will be because you have grown blind. If anybody ever wore his heart on his sleeve—no, not there—but beating sturdily in the right place for one woman in the world it's—"