Stories from Everybodys Magazine, 1910 | Page 7

It never wavered even while Jennie shook down her
long curls ostensibly to let the sun dry a single lock that in some
unaccountable way had felt the touch of a wave. Beamingly Dorothea
heard Amiel humorously contrast this brown glory with her own short
crop. Beamingly she fell into the plans for the crabbing party that
afternoon. However, it was this lightsome expedition that laid the last
straw upon the Monster's back.
The gentle art of crabbing involves the carrying of a long-handled net
and a huge basket, and a stop at the butcher's to purchase unsavory
lumps of meat for bait.
Hitherto Dorothea had always proudly and vehemently insisted upon

carrying the basket the long, hot mile to the bay. To-day, as Amiel
dropped the bait in and handed it to her as a matter of course, she
accepted it with the look of the proud spirit that will not cry out beneath
indignities. She hung the basket over her blue flanneled arm and
trudged valiantly before them.
The afternoon was one of long and unprecedented martyrdom.
Dorothea reviewed it as she changed into her white pique' for dinner,
the while beamingly advising Jennie as to the selection of hair ribbons.
SHE had vaulted fences; Jennie had been assisted. SHE had baited lines;
Jennie's had been baited. The fact that a week before the offer of help
in that delicate operation would have been regarded as an insult to her
intelligence failed to occur to her to-day. She burned with humiliation
as she remembered that after a half hour of seeing Jennie's line
carefully prepared, she had handed her own to Amiel with the air of
one doing only what was expected of her. Amiel, in return, had stared
at her, and in the tone he might have used to a younger brother had said
briefly, "Well, go on and bait it. What's the matter?" She had baited it.
Also, she had carried home the net while Amiel had borne the spoils
and protested courteously when Jennie offered an assisting hand. It was
dreary consolation to realize that never for a moment had the proud
smile wavered. She was beginning to feel as though an elastic band had
been stretched for hours under her nose and behind her ears, and the
sole comment her lofty amiability had drawn forth had been a reference
to the famed animal of Cheshire.
From her window she presently saw Jennie, all rosy muslin and tossing
curls, strolling beachward with Amiel. The sight nerved her to
demonstrate an idea that had occurred to her inspiringly during the day.
Once by simply placing a dewy rose in her golden torrent of hair, Lady
Ursula had brought the ball room to her feet. In emulation, Dorothea
extracted a hair ribbon from Jennie's stock and, failing other means,
tied it bandage-wise about her head. The result was not coquettish. It
suggested only accident or disease. She removed it wearily, and sat
down on the edge of the bed to think. Plainly, she could not compete
with Jennie on the grounds of beauty or accomplishments. Apparently
the fact of being able to swim, vault, and leap from vast heights

constituted none of these things. And yet, before Jennie arrived--and
doubtless after Jennie departed--after these five interminable days that
stretched before her--but why five?
The dinner bell rang insistently. Some one was calling her from the
stairs. Dorothea sat still, with her arms folded on the bedpost and a new
thought playing like summer lightning in her brain. The thought
gradually resolved itself into a problem. It was well enough to decide
that Jennie must go--the problem was how to make her go. A telegram
or a letter summoning her home? A good idea if there were any one in
the city to send it. That was obviously impossible.
Dorothea walked downstairs with her brows knitted in thought above
the unchanging smile, and in her eyes the look of the rapt soul
momentarily expecting inspiration.
The inspiration arrived during that hour when the denizens of the little
colony sat ring-wise about the beach fire.
The neighbor with the banjo had done his worst, and desisted; Jennie
had piped through her repertoire and was now graciously accepting the
support of Amiel's arm. Dorothea and the Monster, somewhat
withdrawn from the circle, watched a crooked moon lift itself above the
horizon and lay a trail of opal glory on the waves. Still awaiting
inspiration, she regarded it with as little interest as Lucretia Borgia
might have given the sunset that preceded one of her little poisoning
dinners.
Presently, as befitted the atmosphere and hour, the talk of the little
circle fell upon things ghostly and mysterious--strange happenings and
prophetic dreams. Dorothea, who had a love of horrors, lent a suddenly
attentive ear;