Randolph Chester, still a little pale, was dripping on the bank when Allan and the two girls joined him.
“I am so glad you are safe, ladies,” he said a little sheepishly, for he was conscious that he had not played a heroic part.
“Small thanks to you, Mr. Chester!” retorted Clementina sharply. “We might have drowned, so far as you were concerned.”
“I cannot swim much,” said Mr. Chester uneasily. “I never regretted it so much as now.”
“You could swim well enough to save yourself. Mr. Thorpe, you are my preserver!” exclaimed Clementina gushingly.
“Do not magnify my service, Miss Raymond. We were very near shoal water.”
“But you saved my life,” persisted Clementina. “I shall never forget it.”
Mabel said nothing, but she impulsively extended, her hand. Allan Thorpe was better pleased than with Miss Raymond’s demonstrative expressions of gratitude.
“Now, young ladies,” said the artist, “though I am no physician, you must allow me to prescribe an immediate return home. Otherwise you’ll run a great risk of catching cold. Mr. Chester, if you will take charge of Miss Raymond, I will accompany Miss Frost. For your own sake, you will find it best to go at once.”
Miss Raymond was rather sulky, but, though irritated with her escort, policy prevailed, and she forced herself into a good humor. She had made up her mind to marry Mr. Chester, and he required delicate management. So she accepted the lame apology he offered for leaving her to her fate, and by the time they reached the hotel they were outwardly on good terms.
On the day after the picnic, Allan Thorpe wrote the following letter to his friend and fellow artist John Fleming, who was spending the summer at Bethlehem
DEAR JACK — You wonder why I prefer to spend the summer at Granville, and refuse to join you at Bethlehem. Your surprise is natural. I admit that between Granville and Bethlehem there is no comparison. The latter is certainly far more attractive to an artist who has only his art in view. But, Jack, there is another reason. You were always my father confessor — at least you have been since the happy day when our friendship begin — and I am willing to confess to you that I have lost my heart. There is a charming school mistress in Granville, to whom I have transferred it wholly and unconditionally.
Not an ordinary school mistress, mind you; Miss Frost is not only charming in person, but thoroughly accomplished. I know you will be incredulous; but when I explain the mystery which environs her you will lose your skepticism. Let me tell you, then, in confidence, that last winter, at an artists’ reception in New York, I was introduced to a girl whose name I knew as that of an acknowledged queen of society. A little conversation convinced me that she was more than that; that she had a genuine and discriminating love of art; that she despised the frivolous nothings which are dignified as conversations by the butterflies of fashion, and that she regarded life as something more than a succession of parties and receptions. I was strongly attracted; but I learned that she was the possessor of a large fortune, and this precluded the thought of any intimate friendship with her on the part of a penniless artist.
Well, Jack, on the second day after my arrival in Granville, I met this same girl again. Imagine my astonishment at discovering that she was teaching the grammar school in the village, on the splendid stipend of seven dollars a week. Of course she has lost her fortune — how, I have been unable to learn. She is reticent on this subject; but the loss does not seem to affect her spirits. She is devoting herself earnestly to the work she has chosen, and is succeeding admirably. I declare to you that I yield Miss Frost higher respect now that she is a plain country school teacher than when she was a social leader. That she should give up, uncomplainingly, the gay delights her fortune has procured for her and devote herself to a useful but contracted and perhaps monotonous routine of work, indicates; a nobility of nature of which previously I had no assurance.