A Damsel in Distress

It was not at first that George roused himself to the point of

asking why he was here and what--now that he was here--he proposed

to do. For two languorous days he loafed, sufficiently occupied

with his thoughts. He smoked long, peaceful pipes in the

stable-yard, watching the ostlers as they groomed the horses; he

played with the Inn puppy, bestowed respectful caresses on the Inn

cat. He walked down the quaint cobbled street to the harbour,

sauntered along the shore, and lay on his back on the little beach

at the other side of the lagoon, from where he could see the red

roofs of the village, while the imitation waves splashed busily on

the stones, trying to conceal with bustle and energy the fact that

the water even two hundred yards from the shore was only eighteen

inches deep. For it is the abiding hope of Belpher Creek that it

may be able to deceive the occasional visitor into mistaking it for

the open sea.

And presently the tide would ebb. The waste of waters became a sea

of mud, cheerfully covered as to much of its surface with green

grasses. The evening sun struck rainbow colours from the moist

softness. Birds sang in the thickets. And George, heaving himself

up, walked back to the friendly cosiness of the Marshmoreton Arms.

And the remarkable part of it was that everything seemed perfectly

natural and sensible to him, nor had he any particular feeling that

in falling in love with Lady Maud Marsh and pursuing her to Belpher

he had set himself anything in the nature of a hopeless task. Like

one kissed by a goddess in a dream, he walked on air; and, while

one is walking on air, it is easy to overlook the boulders in the

path.

Consider his position, you faint-hearted and self-pitying young men

who think you have a tough row to hoe just because, when you pay

your evening visit with the pound box of candy under your arm, you

see the handsome sophomore from Yale sitting beside her on the

porch, playing the ukulele. If ever the world has turned black to

you in such a situation and the moon gone in behind a cloud, think

of George Bevan and what he was up against. You are at least on the

spot. You can at least put up a fight. If there are ukuleles in the

world, there are also guitars, and tomorrow it may be you and not

he who sits on the moonlit porch; it may be he and not you who

arrives late. Who knows? Tomorrow he may not show up till you have

finished the Bedouin's Love Song and are annoying the local birds,

roosting in the trees, with Poor Butterfly.