Joe Cone 700
words
Cambridge,
Mass.
“A man is either a fool or else he’s an
intellectual scoundrel; he’s nothing between.”
She flung down her book and lay back in
the hammock, idly watching the summer skies with a cold, stony stare. A bird on
the branches above sang to her; the hammock moved gently to and fro, and a
friendly breeze, fresh from the lake at her feet, toyed with her rebellious
hair, but she was dead to everything; everything except that all men were alike
and none were really good.
“He will be over this morning,” she
mussed, indifferently, “and I must tell him. Oh, the weariness of it all!”
A moment later she heard the swash of a
skiff cutting through the water, the plash of the oars, and then the dull
crunch of the prow against the steep bank, but she did not look up. Once she
had listened, with a beating heart,
but now – well, that was before Captain Ashland had offered her the services of
his steam yacht for the season. The boat was fastened and she knew he was
within a few feet of her. He, poor fool, thought she had fallen asleep.
“I wonder what makes me tremble so?” she
asked herself, vexedly, for she had expected to be as calm as the glassy
surface but a few rods away. She prided herself upon her utter tranquility under
all circumstances, even to that of breaking the hearts of men.
“Marie, I am here.”
“Yes, I know it,” she said, sitting up.
“I came –”
“Yes, I know what you came for, and I came
to tell you that –”
“Stop!”
Harrey Atwood spoke decidedly. He had not
guessed what she was to say; if he had done so – well, no one can tell. She was
puzzled, and less at ease than ever. She felt as though something was going to
happen. She hoped it was nothing more serious than her refusal of Harrey
Atwood.
“I came over to let you read this, Marie,
and to tell you, to tell you that the answer, well, that you need not give it
now.
Her mercury of self-estimation fell
several degrees. Still, it was a lack of courage on his part, she thought, or
else he wished to spare her the embarrassment of accepting him for a little
longer.
“Oh, indeed, Mr. Atwood,” she said,
ironically, “you are very kind; I’m sure it would have disappointed you, tho’”
“Perhaps,” he responded, in a pained
voice.
She took the paper. It was blue-penciled
so she had no difficulty finding the article he wished her to read. The heading
was all that it was necessary for her to see. The sheet trembled for a moment
in her hand, then dropped upon the grass. She stood up and put out her hand.
“Mr. Atwood,” she said, “I am very, very
sorry for you; sorry more than I can tell. But perhaps papa can do something to
help you on again. I – I must go now for I hear the Captain’s whistle blowing
and I promised to go for a sail this morning.”
Within a few feet of the hotel she met her
father. He was white and trembling with excitement.
“Where’s
Harrey Atwood?” he asked.
“He’s just gone off across the lake again;
but papa, what is the matter?”
He ignored her question.
“You refused him, I suppose?”
“Why, yes; since he has failed. I couldn’t
do otherwise.”
“Failed? Who’s failed?”
“Why. Harrey Atwood.”
“Harrey Atwood? Nonsense, it’s me, your
father! Oh, Marie, I fear we are ruined! The first edition of the paper was
wrong. Our offices are so close together they got us mixed. Come, Marie, we
must leave here at once.”
Her old-time calmness had left her now. She
was pale and unsteady, and her father was obliged to take her arm.
“Did Harrey Atwood know of this – this mistake
before he came to me?” she asked, feebly.
“Knew it from the start. Oh, Marie, if –”
“But the Captain,” she interrupted, “where
is the Captain?”
“Ashland? Curse him! He left bag and
baggage on the squealing little yacht of his fifteen minutes ago!”
Joe Cone
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