Название: Мотылёк решает: Роман
Автор: Эдвард Олден Джуэлл. Эдвард Олден Джуэлл был американским редактором газет и журналов, искусствоведом и писателем. Он был художественным редактором New York Times с июля 1936 года до своей смерти. Википедия (Английский язык)
Дата и место рождения: 10 марта 1888;г., Гранд-Рапидс, Мичиган, США
Дата и место смерти: 11 октября 1947;г., Нью-Йорк, Нью-Йорк, США
***
Когда Луиза открыла глаза, она мечтательно смотрела на лёгкое истирание в крыше черепицы, через которую моргало утро. Там были не так много из этих неформальных фонарей, ибо крыша не была старой ни один раз. Но их было несколько, так как они, скорее всего, будут в большинстве лета коттеджи. Когда был бурный ливень, надо было суетиться вокруг раздавать кастрюли и чайники, чтобы поймать часто амбициозную капельницу. Но сегодня утром дождя не было. Красивому лицу Луизы ничего не угрожало
незапрошенной ванны. Это был сияющий летний рассвет.
На мгновение она задумалась, как ей довелось так рано проснуться.
Июльские птицы болтали в лесу. Но почему _ она _
просыпались из глубокой безымянности? Однако в настоящее время причина
ибо это явление ярко вспыхнуло. Внизу в коттедже живут
комната, на дымоходе, стояла старые голландские часы. Эти часы
обладал своего рода винтиком, возмущенным клещом и голосом, когда это было
время говорить, полное дерьмового, дерьмового злобы. Луиза могла слышать
острые тикающие. Затем пришло немного вихря - как очень хрип
дряхлость - сопровождаемая гневным ударом. Раз, два, три, четыре.
И при первом же инсульте она знала, почему так почти очнулась
гротеск час. Воспоминание принесло ей наполовину капризный шок. В час Лесли будет крутить двигатель своего маленького запуска, и они будут жаждать Беулы.
Однако даже это не побудило девочку выйти из постели.
Действительно, она возникла достаточно намеренно и только после короткого рецидива
в мечтательность, которая была двоюродной сестрой, чтобы уснуть. Она разрешила ей
разум исследовать, довольно фантастически и не немного экстравагантно,
вероятные курсы дня только рождаются. Она знала за пределами любого
вопрос, что это был день, полный всей важности для нее.
Тем не менее, она продолжила этот воздух прохладного владения, который молодые люди
часто выбирают, чтобы показать, когда они чувствуют, что бразды правления тесно в
их руки. Когда она посмотрела на крошечную точку авроры на крыше,
Луиза улыбнулась. От старой проблемы почти не осталось следа - это
хорошо переносимая, но достаточно острое ранение, которое, хотя и ее собственное,
добавил новые строки в уже изобразительное лицо преподобного Нидхэма. Ричард?
Ричард был почти забыт. Это было так, как и должно быть.
Вызывающе, но и немного неряшливо (потому что вряд ли можно было считаться
хорошее христианское настроение), Луиза пожелала, чтобы Ричард как-то
быть здесь, чтобы наблюдать за ее триумфом; выше всех - для раны еще
небольшой скат - чтобы увидеть, как тонко спокойна она _ научилась _ быть в этих
имеет значение.
На склоне холма была легкая ступенька наружу. Один
unalert мог не отметить его, или мог не знать его для
человеческий протектор, где был такой блеск белки и бурундука
Скамперинг. Но Луиза была бдительна. Она может быть спокойна, но она также
оповещение. И она знала, что там нет белки. Это была Лесли.
Он задержался под ее окном, не решив, должен ли он
рисковать камешками или разумным свистом, чтобы убедиться, что она
бодрствовать. При слабом звуке его стопы она быстро подняла голову от подушки.
«Луиза!» - прошептал он.
Возможно, вы подумали, что это просто проезжающий ветер. Но ты
нельзя было ожидать, что она узнает голос Лесли.
Девушка мягко выскользнула из кровати. Она не хотела ее растить сестра. Хильда спала с ней. Хильда дала свою комнату Тетя Марджи.
Когда Луиза вышла на голый пол коттеджа, ее ноги
сталкивались с прохладными маленькими буграми песка, остатком подсохшего
постельные ботинки. Нельзя жить здесь, рядом с озером Мичиган
не приходя считать песок таким же интимно и законно входящим
почти в каждую фазу существования. Действительно, она больше бродила на песке
или меньше на всем пути к одному маленькому окну; затем сброшен
легковесно на колени перед окном и смотрели вниз через экран.
«Я проснулась, Лесли», - прошептала она.
И парень, который с нетерпением смотрел на это самое окно, вакантный
до сих пор слабо улыбался, кивал и делал движения, означающие, что он
ждал бы её в маленьком деревенском «чайном домике». Однако его улыбка
был очень краток; и его манера, как он пошел к указанному
рандеву, был явно удручён.
Когда Луиза отвернулась от окна, Хильда помешалась. Хильда
поднялась на локоть и приветствовала сестру яркими глазами.
«Кто там?» - спросила она. -Тссс! Это Лес. Возвращайся ко сну, Хильда.
«Он едет с тобой?» - упорствовала младшая девочка.
«Только часть пути». -«До Беулы?»-Да
«Почему он не идет до конца?»
«Потому что я лучше пойду одна», ответила старшая девочка с вполне
захватывающее слияние твердости и тайны.
Но явное достоинство этого ответа было проигнорировано Хильдой, которая
просто заметил, в неэмоциональном, но все еще значительном тоне: "О, я см.".
«Ну, разве это не естественно?» -«Разве не естественно, Лу?»
-«Разве не естественно, что я хочу побыть одна, когда встречаюсь с Линндалом?»
"О, да! Я не просто перестал думать, как это будет.
«Не то, чтобы было действительно важно о Лесе», - продолжил другой,
быстро вскользь в её одежду. «В конце концов, Лес всего лишь мальчик».
«О, ты так думаешь, Лу?» -"Почему, конечно. Лесли не больше двадцати, если он _that_, "заключила довольно сомнительно, скрутив темные волосы и зафиксировав их
свободно на месте.
«О, он!» протестовала Хильда так энергично, как бы шепотом говорить не позволяла.
«Что?» -«Les _ is _ двадцать».
Луиза отвернулась от большего зеркала в комоде и была
пытается сфокусировать затылок с помощью небольшой руки
зеркально, как это делают женщины, которые особенно обеспокоены появлением на
их лучшее. Она странно посмотрела на сестру, которая, в свою очередь, покраснела:
опустить глаза.
"Ну, тогда, как вы говорите. Кажется, вы уверены.
«Лес сказал мне, что он был», плакала Хильда, как будто смутно, чтобы изменить какой-то вид ответственности.
Луиза отказалась от зеркал и села на край кровати для
цель завязать туфли. «Слушай, Хильда», сказала она; "вы должны
чтобы вернуться к сну. Всего четыре часа. Папа был бы зол
если он нас услышит.
«О, но он не может», ответила Хильда, с воздухом одного, кто знает очень
точно акустические свойства дома, в котором она живет.
«Но тетя Марджи может», - предложил другой.
"О, она бы не сказала. Тетя Марджи - спорт! Кроме того ", добавила она, как
хотя, чтобы поставить дело полностью вне спора, «слушайте!»
Это сделали обе девушки. Они молча смотрели в сторону трех четвертей
раздел, за которым была установлена тётя Марджи. Это было совершенно верно.
С этой стороны звучали безошибочные звуки. Тётя Марджи
предупреждал их, что она была тяжелой спящей. Она не сочла это срочным
более конкретно.
«Безопасно!» - призналась Луиза со вздохом насмешливого облегчения, добавив, однако:
«Тем не менее, вы должны вернуться ко сну».
Хильда опустилась на подушку, казалось, без комментариев
соблюдать. Но она снова встала с серьезным вопросом: «Где»
теперь он? "
«Кто?»
«Лес».
"Sh-h-h! Он ждет меня снаружи.
«О, Луиза - Я _ желаю _ ты бы отпустил меня с тобой!» Акцент подразумевался
что петиция была поставлена до сих пор - возможно, настойчиво. "Пожалуйста,
_ do _ позвольте мне пойти - только до Beulah! "
Человек, к которому так искренне обращались, пылил ее лицо и шею
порошок, который означал, что она готова уйти. Она перевернулась
открыть ее коробку с платком со сценой из Дрездена на обложке
и сунул ей в блузку свежий платок. "Теперь будьте хороши и
не дразните ", - сказала она немного похабно. Луиза взяла определённую
старшее-сестринское отношение к Хильде, в котором было что-то -
эгоистичный авторитет.
Ещё раз Хильда послушно вернулась. Но как она лежала там, очень
в самом деле, она не могла не вздохнуть: "О, как я должна _ любовь _
идти в Беулу! " И раздался еще один вздох.
Теперь, можно предположить, из пылкого тона молодой девушки,
что эта Беула, о которой оба неоднократно говорили, должна быть
замечательно и своеобразно очаровательное место. Да, он действительно должен обладать
редкие атрибуты, чтобы заставить девушку умолять, чтобы ей разрешили отказаться от ее милого
нюхательное гнездо на рассвете для простого его вида. И все же, как ни странно,
Beulah вряд ли был очарователен в каком-либо фактическом смысле: просто крошечный, покладистый, унылый
маленькая дыра города, бедняжка на малой железной дороге. Все вещи
учитывая, совет Луизы звучал очень разумно: "Ты знаешь, что ты
лучше здесь, на Пойнте. "
Однако Хильда ни в коем случае не думала об этом, и она покачала головой
stolid яростность.
«И я подумала», - продолжила ее сестра, уделяя очень мало внимания
ее собственные слова: «Я думал, сегодня утром будет теннисный матч».
«Да, есть», - призналась Хильда.
«Ну, ты знаешь, что они не могут играть без тебя».
Она забыла свои фразы так же быстро, как произнесла их. Она вспахивала
через её футляр с драгоценностями для определённой броши. Это был тот, который
Ричард дал ей, и это как-то было упущено, когда
другие подарки были отправлены ему обратно в фирму преподобного Нидхэма
запрос. Она имела в виду, если она может найти его, носить брошь это
утро. Возможно, Линндал слишком уверен в ней. Она
_ может _ захотеть произвести на него впечатление, что ее жизни не было
безлюбие. В длину она нашла орнамент и надела его, с
маленький бросок кокетства. Конечно, Луиза не хотела держать
от любого относительно их помолвки. Ах, нет. Это была улаженная вещь,
как взгляд на переписку должен исчерпывающе доказывать. Тем не менее, она
решился на брошь. Ричард со своей верностью взломал двоих
лет из ее жизни. Но у Луизы был новый любовник! Ранее
интрижка была достаточно отдаленной, чтобы стоять немного безобидно коммерциализируясь сейчас.
Хильда скромно обесценила завидный свет, в котором ее теннис
игра была поставлена ее сестрой. -«Ты знаешь, что это неправда!» - сказала она.
-«Что неправда?»
"То, что вы сказали о том, что они не могут сыграть матч без меня.
Кроме того, "завершила она скачком мысли, который дал слова
себя странным штампом неактуальности ", _he's_ собирается играть в нем,
_too_. "
«Кто такой?» спросила Луиза огульно, отмахиваясь от нее каким-то испорченным порошком
юбка.
«Лесли».
"Лесли? Ну, у меня нет связи.
Хильда довольно бурно кивнула. Ее волосы, брошенные во сон, лежали богато о
ее плечи. Одно плечо было голым, где ночная рубашка отпала
от него. Она была свежа и красива. Возможно, не такая красивая, как Луиза. Но
Хильде было всего пятнадцать, только что замахнувшись на самый ранний ее расцвет
женственность.
"Да, - объяснила она, - Лес собирается играть в матче. Он сказал мне, что он
придется вернуться ко времени для этого. Так что видите, если это только
теннис, о котором вы думаете, вы можете позволить мне пойти вместе
до Беулы ".
«О, он сделал?» спросила ее сестра, довольно резко, это должно быть признаться,
для того, кто был так абстрагирован за минуту до этого. "Он сказал, что будет
чтобы вернуться? " -"Да, Лу. Почему? В чем дело?
«Ничего». Она втянула булавку в шляпу.
Хильда считала, что ее сестра вернулась на мгновение молчания - как будто спина
может каким-то образом раскрыть, если один, но выглядел достаточно жестко, какие новые эмоции
проходил через сердце. Но когда она говорила это было непринужденно, и
без дальнейшего присоединения к этой теме.
«Мой, Лу, - сказала она, - ты выглядишь грандиозно сегодня утром!»
"Ха! Мой уличный костюм! "
И он воздержался от своих усилий и выпил кофе, землю и
все, довольно невежливыми глотками.
Луиза, как раз на этом этапе, обратила свое внимание на собственный кубок. Там
был один одинокий земля дрейф бесцельно и forlornly круглый и
раунд в повиновении импульсу тока, приведенного в движение
недавнее перемешивание. Она налила свой собственный кубок последним, что объяснило его
быть намного яснее, чем его.
«О, смотри сюда, Лес!» - воскликнула она, следуя за одиночным кофе
размолоть в воздухе кончиком ложки. "Есть только один. Это
значит посетитель, не так ли? " Она немного раскрасилась и подняла
аккуратно оракул.
Лесли пожал плечами, заметно заскучал и смущенно посвятил себя
что осталось от его доли яиц. «Я не знаю», сказал он.
Но от рвения ее не отмахнуться. Она была настроена быть
приемлемо - особенно когда можно было прийти к такому согласию
домыслы как это. "Есть что-то в поиске денег поверх
ваш кофе, «она вышила», хотя вы всегда можете сделать некоторые приходят, если
вы держите горшок достаточно высоко, как вы наливаете. Но вы видите, что не можете сделать
_ visitor _ если нет _ одного ".
А Лесли героически воздержалась от предположений, что даже посетители
может быть отгорожен, если не забыть тире холодной воды.
Тем не менее, он напомнил ей, что нет никаких признаков, чтобы сказать ей там
был посетителем на пути. И добавил, с довольно ювенильным лепетом:
«Я думаю, он пришел бы, если бы не было никаких оснований в _pot_!»
Но это ее взбесило. "Я не хочу сидеть здесь и слушать тебя
неуважительно отзываясь о мистере Барри! Он намного старше, а ты не можешь
относитесь к нему, как к одному из мальчиков.
«Не хочу», - вернулась ее подруга, туманно, но все-таки как-то
точечно.
Она улыбнулась, вычеркнув трения из их речи. "В случае
кофейная гуща, как я понимаю, если она кажется мягкой, это леди, и
Если это тяжело, это человек. Это чайные листья, о которых я думаю
из? В любом случае, мы будем экспериментировать! " Она взглянула на свою спутницу с кокетливым и
почти порочное удовольствие. "Возможно, это единственная тётя Марджи, которая
уже здесь ".
Она перенесла проблемный атом к зубам. Тест, который она
стремился сделать знаменательным, был тот, к которому Лесли привез только
меланхоличный интерес. Она крепко сложила зубы. Там был
маленькая хрупкая трещина. Неоспоримый факт, что это был Линндал Барри
натяг между ними короткую тишину.
3
«Я знаю, но вся наша городская одежда выглядит великой здесь в лесах».
«Ну, я предполагаю, что Lynndal не признал бы меня в прыгуне. Помните, он
не видел меня с прошлой зимы», наблюдала Луиза с очевидным
серьезность тона, который мог бы почти принудить подозревать ее действительно
предназначенный это _was_ необходимый, чтобы нарядить, чтобы быть признанным.
«Да, но Вы писали каждый день», Хильда напомнила ей, отказавшись
предмет одежды и пропускающий весело по пути
отклонение, которое было таким образом открыто.
«Это не так!» ее сестра уверила ее.
«Ну, тогда, три раза в неделю».
«Это - совсем другой вопрос». Внезапно она думала о Ричарде, и
плодородное усердие, на ее стороне, по крайней мере, их корреспонденции.
Она хмурилась. И затем она пошла и склонилась над девочкой в постели."Can you
видеть порошок на моем лице?»
Хильда сказала, что думала, что она видела просто крошечное немного помады.
Таким образом, Луиза потерла лицо энергично полотенцем посредством разрушения
любой возможный след искусственности, и приносящий таким образом усиленный
естественный цветок.
Действительно было очень мало искусственности о девочках Нидхэма.
Преподобный Нидхэм был всегда нервно в поисках этого. Его
большой ужас был такими эпизодами как дороги для сердец романистов:
эпизоды, в которых появляются разрывающие душу моральные проблемы. И он верил,
и часто вполне красноречиво дал выражение вере, что тонкое
микроб искусственности лежит в корне всех эмоциональных излишков.
Несчастное дело Луизы с Ричардом, преподобный Нидхэм был рад
лежите почти прямо у двери Восточной Культуры. Быть отлично
искренний, преподобный Нидхэм не знал много об этом
так называемая Восточная Культура. Но он был убежден - как, возможно, многие
более хорошие души в Среднем Западе - что это было что-то тайно если
не очевидно недружелюбный к тому уровню нормальной, тихой жизни, к который
он почти неистово подписался. Почему они когда-либо посылали ее Восток в
все? «Случалось так, что модная школа, которая причинила весь вред», он будет
скажите со вздохом, в котором были больше, чем намек негодования.
Сама Луиза, независимо от того, что она могла бы думать о Культуре, которую допускают
та половина девочек в школе была по уши влюбленными делами, большей частью
который имел каждое обещание складывания ужасно. Школа была в этом
рай школ, национальная столица. Это была заканчивающаяся школа,
и разумная снисходительность в общественной деятельности была по общему признанию - даже a
бит высокомерно - одна из особенностей учебного плана.
Ах, да. Это было, где весь вред начался. Если она имела
оставшийся дома вместо этого и принятые молодые люди в собственной середине ее матери
Западная комната, она, возможно, была сэкономлена - они, возможно, все были
сэкономленный - что ужасное испытание сердца, с его мрачным конвертом
унижение. В простых терминах Ричард просто отказал ей. Один
мог бы спорить об этом, но каждый не мог, в конце, действительно обманывать
самостоятельно. Он отказал ей, бросил ее, ушел от нее, после
флирт отчаянно и злобно - хотя способом, который преподобный.
Нидхэм сильно подозревал, рассматривался как невинный и даже скорее
надлежащий упадком того Востока он всегда был harping на.
Луиза, простая и немирская, поскольку, она была обучена быть от
колыбель, найденная собой, но плохо оборудованный, чтобы сражаться с такими соблазнами как
ужасный Ричард показан. Это был старый рассказ, но тем не менее
ужасный для всего это. Она верила всему, что он сказал ей, смертельно
неверно истолкованный его достаточно богатый пыл, безумно влюбился и хотел
бросаться в реке, когда она поняла подробно что ее
красивая мечта была разрушена. Естественно, преподобный Нидхэм был потрясен.
Он был испуган, когда его дочь написала о добавлении себя
река. Он определенно не визуализировал Потомак, который он никогда не имел
замеченный; это была бьющаяся в конвульсиях общность, которая захватила его.
Поведение г-жи Нидхэм, в то время, доказало намного больше
практичный, если менее красноречивый, чем ее муж. Она пошла прямо
ее дочери, полной решимости принести домой ее спину; и она оставила a
отвлекающийся министр, чтобы сделать, что прогрессирует, он мог с воскресеньем
проповедь - страдала, как он был лихорадочными видениями тела его ребенка,
gowned в неопределенном, но поэтически цепляющемся предмете одежды, ее волосах
запутанный живописно с морскими водорослями, плавающими на поверхность a
сложный поток в лунном свете. Обязательно в лунном свете.
эффект был более ужасным тот путь. И определенные бессмертные линии стиха
колыхнул бы moaningly через его мысли: «Повышения потока, падения потока,
Сумерки углубляются, требования комендантского часа;
* * * * * *
«Я знаю, но вся наша городская одежда выглядит великой здесь в лесах».
«Ну, я предполагаю, что Lynndal не признал бы меня в прыгуне. Помните, он
не видел меня с прошлой зимы», наблюдала Луиза с очевидным
серьезность тона, который мог бы почти принудить подозревать ее действительно
предназначенный это _was_ необходимый, чтобы нарядить, чтобы быть признанным.
«Да, но Вы писали каждый день», Хильда напомнила ей, отказавшись
предмет одежды и пропускающий весело по пути
отклонение, которое было таким образом открыто.
«Это не так!» ее сестра уверила ее.
«Ну, тогда, три раза в неделю».
«Это - совсем другой вопрос». Внезапно она думала о Ричарде, и
плодородное усердие, на ее стороне, по крайней мере, их корреспонденции.
Она хмурилась. И затем она пошла и склонилась над девочкой в постели."Can you
видеть порошок на моем лице?»
Хильда сказала, что думала, что она видела просто крошечное немного помады.
Таким образом, Луиза потерла лицо энергично полотенцем посредством разрушения
любой возможный след искусственности, и приносящий таким образом усиленный
естественный цветок.
Действительно было очень мало искусственности о девочках Нидхэма.
Преподобный Нидхэм был всегда нервно в поисках этого. Его
большой ужас был такими эпизодами как дороги для сердец романистов:
эпизоды, в которых появляются разрывающие душу моральные проблемы. И он верил,
и часто вполне красноречиво дал выражение вере, что тонкое
микроб искусственности лежит в корне всех эмоциональных излишков.
Несчастное дело Луизы с Ричардом, преподобный Нидхэм был рад
лежите почти прямо у двери Восточной Культуры. Быть отлично
искренний, преподобный Нидхэм не знал много об этом
так называемая Восточная Культура. Но он был убежден - как, возможно, многие
более хорошие души в Среднем Западе - что это было что-то тайно если
не очевидно недружелюбный к тому уровню нормальной, тихой жизни, к который
он почти неистово подписался. Почему они когда-либо посылали ее Восток в
все? «Случалось так, что модная школа, которая причинила весь вред», он будет
скажите со вздохом, в котором были больше, чем намек негодования.
Сама Луиза, независимо от того, что она могла бы думать о Культуре, которую допускают
та половина девочек в школе была по уши влюбленными делами, большей частью
который имел каждое обещание складывания ужасно. Школа была в этом
рай школ, национальная столица. Это была заканчивающаяся школа,
и разумная снисходительность в общественной деятельности была по общему признанию - даже, a бит высокомерно - одна из особенностей учебного плана.
Ах, да. Это было, где весь вред начался. Если она имела
оставшийся дома вместо этого и принятые молодые люди в собственной середине ее матери Западная комната, она, возможно, была сэкономлена - они, возможно, все были
сэкономленный - что ужасное испытание сердца, с его мрачным конвертом
унижение. В простых терминах Ричард просто отказал ей. Один
мог бы спорить об этом, но каждый не мог, в конце, действительно обманывать
самостоятельно. Он отказал ей, бросил ее, ушел от нее, после
флирт отчаянно и злобно - хотя способом, который преподобный.
Нидхэм сильно подозревал, рассматривался как невинный и даже скорее
надлежащий упадком того Востока он всегда был harping на.
Луиза, простая и немирская, поскольку, она была обучена быть от
колыбель, найденная собой, но плохо оборудованный, чтобы сражаться с такими соблазнами как
ужасный Ричард показан. Это был старый рассказ, но тем не менее
ужасный для всего это. Она верила всему, что он сказал ей, смертельно
неверно истолкованный его достаточно богатый пыл, безумно влюбился и хотел
бросаться в реке, когда она поняла подробно что ее
красивая мечта была разрушена. Естественно, преподобный Нидхэм был потрясен.
Он был испуган, когда его дочь написала о добавлении себя
река. Он определенно не визуализировал Потомак, который он никогда не имел
замеченный; это была бьющаяся в конвульсиях общность, которая захватила его.
Поведение г-жи Нидхэм, в то время, доказало намного больше
практичный, если менее красноречивый, чем ее муж. Она пошла прямо
ее дочери, полной решимости принести домой ее спину; и она оставила a
отвлекающийся министр, чтобы сделать, что прогрессирует, он мог с воскресеньем
проповедь - страдала, как он был лихорадочными видениями тела его ребенка,
gowned в неопределенном, но поэтически цепляющемся предмете одежды, ее волосах
запутанный живописно с морскими водорослями, плавающими на поверхность a
сложный поток в лунном свете. Обязательно в лунном свете.
эффект был более ужасным тот путь. И определенные бессмертные линии стиха
колыхнул бы moaningly через его мысли: «Повышения потока, падения потока,
Сумерки углубляются, требования комендантского часа;
* * * * * *
Темнота оседает на крышах и стенах,
Но море во тьме зовет и зовет "....
Преподобный Нидэм сам не был поэтом, но в поэзии была поэзия
семья. Брат написал стихи и пошел к дьяволу. Преподобный
Нидэм даже не очень часто читал стихи (для конечно он
никогда не думал смотреть на «Версию короля Якова» как на стихотворение). Фактически,
преподобный Нидэм имел почти своего рода настроения против поэзии, так как
брат Уилл опозорил их всех. Но было любопытно заметить, что
во времена интенсивного внутреннего смятения соответствующие метрические интерлиньяжи имели
способ вычленить себя из обширной антологии его юности.
Таким образом, пока миссис Нидэм ухаживала за их разбитыми сердцем
дочери, священнослужителю, изо всех сил пытающемуся эволюционировать свою проповедь, пришлось бороться
такие трагические проблемы, как:
"Еще один несчастный,
Утомленные дыханием,
Рашли импортунат,
Пошел к ее смерти! "
И к тому времени, когда бедняга попал в эти бесчеловечно личные строфы:
- Кто ее отец?
Кто была её мать?
У нее была сестра...?
Он будет держать пол и не влезать на один кусок со своей проповедью.
Миссис Нидэм имела смысл сообщить, что Луиза в порядке,
и что она привезла ее домой. Проповедь была как-то завершена.
Но его текст был «Тщеславие, тщеславие!» и в нем были аллюзии на
Культура, которую его собрание никогда по - настоящему не понимало.
«Прощай!» - прошептала Луиза. Она дала один последний летающий взгляд в
зеркало.
«Пока, Лу», вернулась её сестра, представив губы для поцелуя. "Я
надеюсь, он _ придет _ все хорошо ", добавила она, в то время как Луиза перешла
бесшумно, как только могла. "Я просто _ умираю _ чтобы
_ увидеть _ его! "
Другая девушка торопливо кивнула от двери и была выключена внизу.
Хильда снова легла. Она даже закрыла глаза. Но она не спала
больше. Страшный маленький страх сжался в ее сердце: Что, если он должен
не пришли?
Что если Линндал Барри окажется другим Ричардом?
2
Внизу на кухне Луиза подстроила генератор маленькой масляной плиты
на котором делалась большая часть домашней кулинарии. Был старый
древесина также на кухне, но это использовалось только для выпечки.
Он обычно курил и изредка выходил - иногда почти
чудом.
Луиза подвернула фитили печных горелок, убедилась, что
топливо начало свободно впитываться в них и, наконец, применило пламя
совпадения. Затем она надела чайник и достала сковороду из
крючок рядом. Даже барышни грандиозно летят навстречу своим
влюбленные должны идти без завтрака.
Луиза, хотя ее, возможно, помиловали за то, что она не замечала
так просто разумная деталь, как это, на самом деле
вся ситуация наиболее рационально. Это было частью ее прекрасного, зрелого
спокойствие - спокойствие, которое она так хотела, чтобы Ричард увидел. Игра
- и очень убедительно, то - r; le повара, она измерила кофе,
достал яйца, порезал хлеб. Да, все это было частью ее великолепного
спокойствие. Очень жаль, что Ричард не может быть здесь, чтобы увидеть, как
изменила ее - в отличие от импульсивной, неохлажденной, гиперромантической
девушка, которая покорилась его мерзким достопримечательностям. Ее щеки будут
сгореть, даже сейчас, с неотличимым огорчением, когда она отразила, как
мучительно односторонним был несчастный роман. Ах, это было постоянно
был он, который делал притягивание, он, который трепетал, как глупый,
озадаченный мотыльк. Она бы ходила без завтрака каждый день в
Неделя для Ричарда. Но с Линндалом, слава богу, все было довольно
разные. Теперь очевидно и признательно, что именно она занималась
привлечение. Конечно, она восхищалась Линндалом и любила его.
Конечно, она любила его. Она даже очень любила его, иначе бы
она будет помолвлена? Нет, но дело было в том, что на этот раз ее глаза были
открыто. Они были широко открыты, как должны быть глаза. На этот раз она не была,
ослепленные фатальным блеском остроумия и тонким убеждением манер
другие и более изысканные, чем любые, с которыми она сталкивалась до сих пор. Линндал
совершенно не похожа на Ричарда. Линндал ее стойко обожал. Он даже
поклонялся ей. Он сказал так, хотя и с домашней и сдержанной риторикой,
в своих письмах. Да, она знала, что Линндал был глубоко и постоянно в
любовь к ней. Так что этот роман не мог, это было очевидно, чтобы увидеть, повернуться
так, как была у другого.
Она пела, хотя и очень благоразумно, под дыханием, как она спела
о приготовлении поспешной еды. Вода закипела в чайнике. Она
вылил его на кофейную гущу, бросил в яичную скорлупу, оставил
горшок тушить. Луиза была очень умелой кухаркой. Даже преподобный.
Нидэм должен был признать, что это многое, во всяком случае, было получено от
несчастное восточное школьное образование. Она поставила чашки, блюдца и
тарелки на кухонном столе. Затем она выскользнула из задней двери
коттедж и вдоль пути к маленькому деревенскому павильону, который они назвали
«чайный домик» - хотя, на самом деле, чай никогда не фигурировал в его
полезность. В «чайном домике» Лесли сейчас ждали. Путь, ведущий
до него полыхал густой лесной рост. Побеги и лист Дьюи
скопления почистили ее, когда она проскочила. Солнце уже поднялось, но
под деревьями, и особенно внизу в маленькой дупле, где ей пришлось
крестик, все было пыльным и все еще тронутым ночью. Лесли видел, что она приехала, и подпрыгнул. Он ждал ее в крестьянине
дверной проем.
Доброе утро!» она позвала его из крошечной долины. «Мы не должны
разбудите дачников», она предостерегла, приехав к нему и понизившись для a
момент, довольно затаивший дыхание, на одной из грубых скамей.
«Люди должны встать ранее», наблюдал Лесли голосом он просто
заметно требуемый, чтобы держать вполне, как обычно. «Они не знают что они
мисс."
«Это прекрасно, не так ли?» девочка согласилась, резко повернувшись и смотря
прочь к морю.
Представление от этой высоты было довольно обширно. Это был укромный уголок
особенно популярный у поклонников закатов. В этот ранний час
солнце не было достаточно высоко, чтобы коснуться гладкого пляжа ниже, но это
освещенный небо, блестящим, преследующим способом, и высвеченный против
крылья просматривания чаек.
Однако изящный, хотя утро бесспорно было, это не казалось
надлежащий случай для любого rhapsodising. Действительно, случай не сделал
предоставьте даже пространство для достойного удовольствия вообще. Луизе утро
появившийся занятый, а не справедливый. Она была все еще достаточно молода,
для всего ее уважаемого спокойствия, чтобы рассмотреть жизнь, и в этом случае
особенно операции мира природы, с сильно личным
глаза. Природа была скорее дополнением, даже случайным в этом, чем
что-то бесконечно большее, чем себя. Она и ее интересы должны
быть на первом месте. Если бы удобство разрешило, то слава восхода солнца могла бы
приветствуйте мимоходом. Можно было сказать относительно мисс Нидхэм, что у нее был a
шапочное знакомство со вселенной.
«Я получаю нас укус завтрака, Les», сказала она ему. «Вы не делаете
возражать есть в кухне?»
«Едва!» ответил ее компаньон с опрометчивым воздухом того, кто будет
возможно любите объяснять, что даже кухни потеряли бы любого обычного
ненависть, которая могла бы быть свойственна им, была ею, чтобы украсить их с нею
присутствие. Конечно, Лесли не высказал никакое подобное сентиментальное и
яркая мысль. Было удивительно мало слащавости о
Лесли, несмотря на его опасный возраст. Он казался серьезным товарищем, хотя
не, возможно, исключительно так. Это была серьезность, которая охватила все
более легкие капризы. Лесли был видом парня, который мог разговаривать
разумно с пожилыми людьми, все же выманьте лучший смех также
от юной толпы. Именно это удачное равновесие охраняло его,
обычно, против ловушек героического.
«Я предполагаю, что мы, возможно, были в состоянии получить некоторый завтрак в Беуле», он сказанный сомнительно.
Но он улыбнулся с Луизой, когда она покачала головой. Завтрак был бы
более надежный в кухне Нидхэма. И она поднялась и шла впереди назад, вниз путь.
«Вы уверены лодка в хорошем состоянии для пробега?» она спросила
с тревогой через ее плечо.
«О, да».
«Это было бы ужасно, чтобы сломать половину пути и опоздать на поезд».
«Это не будет, Луиза. Вы не опоздаете на свой поезд». Он говорил немного
горько.
На самом деле, Лесли был половиной ночного лужения
с его двигателем - который составлял его прекрасную гарантию. Луиза была
крайне зная, что на двигатель нельзя было последовательно полагаться. Это
не сделал, как общая вещь, получают самый скрупулезный вид ухода.
У равновесия Leslian были свои ошибки.
Они вползли с замечательной тайностью в кухню, чей обычный
аромат специй и влажных зерновых продуктов был теперь сломан более живым
аромат дымящегося кофе. В кухне был только один стул. Когда
Элиза повар принял ее молодого человека, который был носильщиком курорта
отель в Беуле, это было неизменно в том, что преподобному Нидхэму понравилось
назовите Великое Бога На свежем воздухе - что самый просторный и во многих отношениях
лучше всего предоставленный получения комнат, в конце концов. Неизменно - то есть,
конечно, кроме тех случаев, когда шел дождь. Когда лилось Элизой и ее молодежью
у человека был восхитительный способ задумать единственный достаточный стул.
Луиза показала с волной руки, что Лесли должен был войти
столовая, очень спокойно, и усилие другой стул. Он сделал так,
и набор оба стула около кухонного стола, в местах размечены
уже с пластинами, чашками и искусственным серебром. Тогда он сел,
толкайте его локти на клеенке, и пристально посмотрел с сожалением между его кулаками
в девушке, которая, все еще под маской повара, порхал
манерой девушек, которые, возможно, не чувствуют вполне дома в
их работа, все же кто бросил бы вызов Вам указывать на один единственный пункт нет
достигнутый согласно самым лучшим методам. Он наблюдал за нею с
у жалобной интенсивности, который, был он, обладал немного менее положительный
чувство, был бы, конечно, назван фиксированным пристальным взглядом. Она обернулась
в настоящее время и обнаруженный его отношение.
«Ради бога», она шептала, «что заставляет Вас посмотреть на меня это
путь?»
Он переместил свой пристальный взгляд к тихим деревьям снаружи и начал жужжать.
«Я не знал, что смотрел на Вас любой специальный путь. И во всяком случае, если
Я был, Вы знаете, почему», сказал он ей с небольшим эффектом расстроенных
все же вызывающее противоречие, которое было немедленно приглушено возобновленным
жужжание.
«Лесли, Вы знаете, что мы вчера обсудили все это».
«Я знаю, я знаю».
«И Вы сказали, что это было в порядке. Вы сказали, что поняли. Не был
попытка быть любым видом недоразумения...."
«Нет никакого недоразумения. Почему Вы вскакиваете на меня?I didn't
начните говорить об этом."
Это было явно верно. Однако она обращалась с ним ловко. «Вы не делаете
должны говорить, когда Вы смотрите тот путь."
прошу прощения!» сфотографированный Лесли, который начал капризно выявлять с его пальцами на
клеенка. Не понимая это, он выявлял ту же мелодию, которую он имел
просто жужжание.
Она вспыхнула немного и чувствовала краткое негодование к нему.Had
она данный слова тому, что было, на мгновение, действительно в ее уме, ней
поддержал бы, а не без честной теплоты, что человек Вы
ушли не имеет никакого права чувствовать себя поврежденным. Но мгновение спустя это
концепция не казалась вполне настолько честной. Нет, это не чтило ее. Она
знал, что это не сделало. И прежде чем она сделала три вздоха, она думала
Лесли со значительно большей нежностью. Однако в этой связи,
как с мгновенным нетерпением, чувство не растрачивало себя в
слова. Она просто спросила его очень доброжелательным способом, как ему понравился его
яйца лучше всего.
«Я не забочусь», ответил он, используя бесцветное мужское
несамоуверенность, обычная в таких случаях.
«Вам нравятся они, взобрался?»
Он кивнул мрачно.
«Тогда у нас будут они, взобрался», объявила она с веселой улыбкой,
ломка нескольких яиц через край миски, добавление небольшого молока,
как тщательно отмерено, как будто это было ванильным для пирога, и
переход немного, чтобы разбить комбинацию. Там казался чем-то
непостижимо и очень тонко характерный в решении взобраться
их....
В мгновение ока эти два были усажены в завтраке.
Она стала болтливой. «Я сожалею, что не было никакого тоста, Les. Мы не можем сделать
достойный тост по нефтяному пожару. Мы попробовали его», она расширилась с
маркированное значение, распространяя масло на довольно сухом куске хлеба.
Хлеб, который был сухим сегодня, мог бы быть сырым завтра. Это должно быть
отмеченный мимоходом, что здесь в лесах поставки показали a
тенденция стать или очень сырым или очень сухим. На самом деле, хлеб и
коробки кондитерских изделий были часто самыми безошибочными из барометров.
Лесли дал ложное показание сам с гарантией, что хлеб был восхитителен.
«В городе», она продолжала, проливая кофе, «у нас есть электрическое
тостер. Мы имеем его на столе и делаем тост, поскольку мы хотим это.I wish
у нас был он здесь!»
«Вы могли заставить его работать с нефтью?» спросил ее компаньон с конфетой
злонамеренность.
«Конечно, не», она вздохнула. «Я всегда забываю. Мне жаль, что они не управляли проводами
здесь к Пункту. У меня есть электрические бигуди дома, также.It's
такое беспокойство, засовывающее Ваше железо вниз дымоход лампы."
«Я должен думать, что это было бы
«Было бы ужасно сломаться на полпути и пропустить поезд».
"Не будет, Луиза. Ты не пропустишь свой поезд. Он говорил немного
горько.
На самом деле, Лесли полночки тычал
с его инженерией, которая учитывала его прекрасное заверение. Луиза была
болезненно осознавая, что двигатель не может быть постоянно заблокирован. Это
не получил, как правило, самого скрупулезного ухода.
Леслийская пуаза имела свои провалы.
Они с восхитительной скрытностью вкрались на кухню, чей привычный
запах специй и сырых зерновых продуктов был теперь сломан живым
аромат пропариваемого кофе. На кухне был только один стул. Когда
Элиза повар приняла своего молодого человека, который был носильщиком курорта
отель в Beulah, он неизменно в том, что преподобный Нидхэм любил
назовите Бога Великим вне Дверей - что самое емкое и во многих отношениях
в конце концов, лучшая меблировка приемных салонов. Неизменность - это,
конечно, за исключением тех случаев, когда шел дождь. Когда пошел дождь Элиза и ее молодой человек имел захватывающий способ осмысления одиночного стула достаточным.
Луиза заметила волной руки, что Лесли должен был пойти в
столовая, когда-нибудь так тихо, и принеси другой стул. Он сделал это,
и установить оба стула рядом с кухонным столом, в местах, отмеченных
уже с тарелками, чашками и имитационным серебром. Потом сел,
надавил локтями на масленку и ругательно посмотрел между кулаками
на барышню, которая все еще в облике повара трепетала о
на манер барышень, которые, возможно, не чувствуют себя вполне дома в
их работа, но кто бросит вам вызов, чтобы указать один отдельный пункт не
осуществляется в соответствии с самыми лучшими способами. Он наблюдал за ней с
скорбная интенсивность, которая, если бы она обладала немного менее позитивной
чувство, безусловно, будет называться фиксированным взглядом. Она обернулась
вскоре и обнаружил его отношение.
"Ради всего святого, - шепнула она, - что заставляет тебя смотреть на меня, что
как? "Он сместил взгляд на неподвижные деревья снаружи и начал гудеть.
"Я не знал, что смотрю на тебя каким-то особенным образом. И в любом случае, если
Я был, знаете, почему ", сказал он ей, с легким эффектом недоумения
тем не менее вызывающее противоречие, которое было немедленно приглушено возобновленным гудение.
«Лесли, ты знаешь, что мы говорили об этом вчера».
«Не могли бы вы заставить его работать с маслом?» спросила ее спутница со сладким
злонамеренность.
- Конечно, нет, - вздохнула она. "Я всегда забываю. Я хотел бы, чтобы они запускали провода здесь, до Точки. У меня дома тоже есть электрический кёрлингист. Это
такой хлопот, который засовывает твой утюг в дымоход лампы ".
«Я должен думать, что это будет», согласился Лесли, помешивая его кофе и
пастбища таких грунтов, которые плавают на поверхности над
край чашки, где их подковывали и откладывали на блюдце.
Они некоторое время беседовали на случайные и ежедневные темы, как люди,
даже вовлеченные в могучие проблемы, имеют скорее способ сделать, в конце концов.
Она продолжала предупреждать его, красивыми, запредельными жестами, не говорить
над безопасным шагом, установленным при их вводе. Предупреждение было больше
живописно, чем действительно необходимо, однако, для Лесли, как раз тогда,
оказалось, что настроение далеко не бойкое.
"О, дорогая! Я забыл выкинуть холодную воду в горшок до того, как взял
она плакала в некотором огорчении, так как слегка наблюдала его
преувеличенная озабоченность плавающими злоумышленниками. "Это вскипело
последнее. Я думал, что огонь развёрнут под ним, но это не так ".
«Какая разница?» - протестовал парень с нелепостью галантерея.
И он воздержался от своих усилий и выпил кофе, землю и
все, довольно невежливыми глотками.
Луиза, как раз на этом этапе, обратила свое внимание на собственный кубок. Там
был один одинокий земля дрейф бесцельно и forlornly круглый и
раунд в повиновении импульсу тока, приведенного в движение
недавнее перемешивание. Она налила свой собственный кубок последним, что объяснило его
быть намного яснее, чем его.
«О, смотри сюда, Лес!» - воскликнула она, следуя за одиночным кофе
размолоть в воздухе кончиком ложки. "Есть только один. Это
значит посетитель, не так ли? " Она немного раскрасилась и подняла
аккуратно оракул.
Лесли пожал плечами, заметно заскучал и смущенно посвятил себя
что осталось от его доли яиц. «Я не знаю», сказал он.
Но от рвения ее не отмахнуться. Она была настроена быть
приемлемо - особенно когда можно было прийти к такому согласию
домыслы как это. "Есть что-то в поиске денег поверх
ваш кофе, «она вышила», хотя вы всегда можете сделать некоторые приходят, если
вы держите горшок достаточно высоко, как вы наливаете. Но вы видите, что не можете сделать
_ visitor _ если нет _ одного ".
А Лесли героически воздержалась от предположений, что даже посетители
может быть отгорожен, если не забыть тире холодной воды.
Тем не менее, он напомнил ей, что нет никаких признаков, чтобы сказать ей там
был посетителем на пути. И добавил, с довольно ювенильным лепетом:
«Я думаю, он пришел бы, если бы не было никаких оснований в _pot_!»
Но это ее взбесило. "Я не хочу сидеть здесь и слушать тебя
неуважительно отзываясь о мистере Барри! Он намного старше, а ты не можешь
относитесь к нему, как к одному из мальчиков.
«Не хочу», - вернулась ее подруга, туманно, но все-таки как-то точечно.
И он воздержался от своих усилий и выпил кофе, землю и
все, довольно невежливыми глотками.
Луиза, как раз на этом этапе, обратила свое внимание на собственный кубок. Там
был один одинокий земля дрейф бесцельно и forlornly круглый и
раунд в повиновении импульсу тока, приведенного в движение
недавнее перемешивание. Она налила свой собственный кубок последним, что объяснило его быть намного яснее, чем его.
«О, смотри сюда, Лес!» - воскликнула она, следуя за одиночным кофе
размолоть в воздухе кончиком ложки. "Есть только один. Это значит посетитель, не так ли? " Она немного раскрасилась и подняла аккуратно оракул.
Лесли пожал плечами, заметно заскучал и смущенно посвятил себя
что осталось от его доли яиц. «Я не знаю», сказал он.
Но от рвения ее не отмахнуться. Она была настроена быть
приемлемо - особенно когда можно было прийти к такому согласию
домыслы как это. "Есть что-то в поиске денег поверх
ваш кофе, «она вышила», хотя вы всегда можете сделать некоторые приходят, если
вы держите горшок достаточно высоко, как вы наливаете. Но вы видите, что не можете сделать
_ visitor _ если нет _ одного ".
А Лесли героически воздержалась от предположений, что даже посетители
может быть отгорожен, если не забыть тире холодной воды.
Тем не менее, он напомнил ей, что нет никаких признаков, чтобы сказать ей там
был посетителем на пути. И добавил, с довольно ювенильным лепетом:
«Я думаю, он пришел бы, если бы не было никаких оснований в _pot_!»
Но это ее взбесило. "Я не хочу сидеть здесь и слушать тебя
неуважительно отзываясь о мистере Барри! Он намного старше, а ты не можешь
относитесь к нему, как к одному из мальчиков.
«Не хочу», - вернулась ее подруга, туманно, но все-таки как-то
точечно.
Она улыбнулась, вычеркнув трения из их речи. "В случае
кофейная гуща, как я понимаю, если она кажется мягкой, это леди, и
Если это тяжело, это человек. Это чайные листья, о которых я думаю
из? В любом случае, мы будем экспериментировать! " Она взглянула на свою спутницу с кокетливым и почти порочное удовольствие. "Возможно, это единственная тётя Марджи, которая уже здесь ".
Она перенесла проблемный атом к зубам. Тест, который она
стремился сделать знаменательным, был тот, к которому Лесли привез только
меланхоличный интерес. Она крепко сложила зубы. Там был
маленькая хрупкая трещина. Неоспоримый факт, что это был Линндал Барри
натяг между ними короткую тишину.
3
3
"My gracious!" cried Miss Whitcom loudly and cordially, "_I've_ been in
Arizona!"
"You have?"
"Ra_ther_! I started a cactus candy business there before you were...."
She paused, then wholeheartedly laughed a defiance at the very notion
of grey hairs. "No, I won't say it. I won't go back so far as that. For
I do believe you're thirty, sir, if you're a day."
"I'm thirty-three," confessed Barry, looking older, for just a wistful
moment, than his wont.
"Well, then, when you were a youngster, we'll say, Marjory Whitcom was
working fourteen long hours a day in an absurd little factory on the
fringe of the desert--slaving like all possessed to make a go of it.
The idea was a good one."
"Yes," he agreed, "for we're turning out wonderful cactus candy now."
"I know it. The idea was corking. Alas, so many of my ideas have been
corking! But every one at that time said it was absurd to think of
making candy out of cactus, and no one would believe the Toltec legend
which gave us our receipt. Ah, yes--there's many a slip...."
In her almost brazen way she cornered the new hero of Point
Betsey--actually got between him and the others. But Miss Whitcom was
shrewder, even, than she was brazen. You couldn't possibly deceive her
when she had her reliable antenn; out. Had she not seen the landscape
between them? Distinctly _seen_ it? Suspecting the imminence of a
rather taut situation, this was her way of clearing the air.
Louise did not altogether fathom her aunt's subtlety; but she was
grateful, seizing the occasion to disappear. She flew up to her room,
flung herself on the bed, and nervously cried a little.
Lynndal was here. The long anticipated event had actually come to
pass. But it wasn't the kind of event she had conceived. What was the
trouble? Was he not as she remembered him? Yes, but with phantoms to
dictate the pattern, how she had idealized him in the interim, and
how the correspondence had served to build up in her mind a being of
romance and fire which flesh and blood could never hope to challenge!
Well, he had come, this stranger--with his quiet kindliness, his
somehow sensed aura of patience, where she looked for passion.
Ghosts of the past played havoc with her heart, and she thought: "Can I
give myself to this man? Can I be his, all his? Can I be his for ever
and ever? Can I belong henceforth to him and no one else?"
The mood was one of general relaxation, however--though a relaxation
she had, at an early hour, been far enough from anticipating. She
reviewed the events of the day thus far. She had waked at flush of
dawn; had risen full of a gay expectation, and had gone out to meet her
lover. He had come; she had met him and had forestalled his kiss. Now
he was here. Ten o'clock. And her heart was in a curious state of panic.
But Barry, meanwhile, still down on the screened porch, was finding his
fianc;e's relative an intelligent and really engaging person. For her
part, it had not taken long--with the cactus candy as bait--to lure
him into enthusiasm over his dry-farming. She knew, it developed, very
nearly as much about dry-farming as he did, and Barry, of course, knew
nearly as much about it as there was to know.
The Rev. and Mrs. Needham, having gone on into the cottage living room,
expecting that Barry, momentarily arrested, would follow, stood a
moment conferring in discreet tones.
"What do you think of him, Anna?"
"He seems like a real nice sort, Alf. What do _you_ think?"
"I've always admired Barry," he said proudly, a bit complaisantly.
"During several years of business connection...."
"Yes, Alf he's certainly looked after our interests out West."
Sly little wrinkles of worry just etched themselves across the Rev.
Needham's florid brow. Those interests in the West--heaven knew how
much they meant! They kept the wolf from the door--a mild wolf, of
course, and one that wouldn't really bite; but still a wolf. Yes, they
sustained the Needham establishment in a kind of grand way--certainly
in a way which wouldn't be possible on ministerial salary alone. And
it was Lynndal Barry's initiative which had built the dam: the dam
generated electricity and paid dividends. Yes, they certainly owed
a great deal--though of course it was all on a sufficiently regular
business basis--to Mr. Barry.
"He's a fine, fine man--one of God's own noblemen, Anna. It's only to
be hoped...."
"Hoped, Alf?" Anna was seldom able to supply, off-hand, what one groped
for in one's perplexity.
"That Louise," he began a little impatiently, "--that Louise...."
"Why, where _is_ she?" asked Mrs. Needham, looking suddenly around.
Ah, where indeed?
The Rev. Needham experienced an uncomfortable shivery sensation in his
stomach. Still, there was no reason other than what Marjory had said
about their walking rather far apart. What did she mean? What did she
ever mean? Ah, Marjory....
They looked at her. Yes, she had certainly captured Mr. Barry. Poor
Marjory had a way....
"I wonder," sighed the Rev. Needham--a little ponderously to conceal an
inner breathlessness. "I wonder...."
"What, Alf?"
He shook himself, looking dimly horrified. "Nothing, Anna." What
he wondered was whether his wife's sister had ever fallen by the
wayside....
"Alf," whispered Anna, on the point of slipping upstairs to make sure
for the last time that the visitor's room was quite ready, "how did you
two get on?"
"I can't say very well," he answered with an inflection of nervous
vagueness. "It was almost all about a Bishop on the train. Anna,
I'm--I'm afraid it's no use. You know there are people in the world
that seem destined never to understand each other...."
"Oh, Alf--she's so good-hearted!"
"That may be true," he replied, "but in Tahulamaji I'm beginning to be
convinced she led--that she may almost have led...."
"Oh, Alf!"
"And she'd forgotten...."
"What?"
He spoke with troubled petulance: "My denomination!"
When Miss Whitcom learned, as she did directly, that Mr. O'Donnell
was at the Elmbrook Inn, down at Crystalia, she emphatically changed
colour. However much she might like to deny it, a fact was a fact. And
in addition to that, her talk, for at least ten seconds, was utterly
incoherent. She simply mixed the words all up, and nothing she said
made any sense at all. Of course she quickly regained her equilibrium
and made a playful remark about "having had all that letterwriting
trouble for nothing." But it must very plainly and unequivocally be
set down that throughout those first ten seconds her colour was high,
her coherence at zero.
The ensuing hour at Beachcrest passed quietly, despite the fact that
every one seemed moving at a high rate of tension.
Mrs. Needham spent a considerable portion of the time in conference
with Eliza. The advent of the grocer's boy occasioned the usual
excitement. It must be understood that these arrivals mean ever so much
more in the wilderness than they do in town. In town, supposing there
is a certain item missing, you merely step to the phone and give your
tradesman polite hell. But on Point Betsey there were no such resources
possible. They did not even have electric lights, and it was merely
possible, when things went wrong, to explode to the boy (which never
did any good), or to explode in a grander yet still quite as futile
way to the world at large. Fortunately, this morning (the morning of
this most momentous day!) the supplies arrived in relatively excellent
condition.
The Rev. Needham, pacing up and down alone in the living room, paused
nervously now and then to heed the muffled sounds issuing from sundry
quarters of the cottage: the squeaky opening or closing of doors,
which might somehow have a meaning in his life; the shuffle of steps
(maybe portentous) across the sanded boards.... And most especially he
pricked his ears--those small, alert ears of his, that were perpetually
prepared for the worst--when the things came from the store. It would
be horrible, with guests in the house, to have a short supply; although
of course here again, as in the case of the pancakes, he was concerning
himself outside his own department. But even if these responsibilities
of the kitchen didn't really rest on his shoulders, nevertheless the
Rev. Needham listened as each item was pronounced, upon its emergence
from the huge market basket.
Coffee, cheese, eggs--eggs, ah! we must look at them. One broken? Well,
we should be thankful for eleven sound ones. Housekeeping, especially
housekeeping in a cottage, develops a wonderful and luminous patience.
This patience--like mercy, an attribute of God Himself--may even
sometimes lead one to the tracing of quite Biblical applications. There
were twelve disciples in the beginning, yet one of them, in the stress
of events....
Bread, celery, carrots, frosted cookies. _Where was the roast?_ The
Rev. Needham's heart stood still. He halted, petrified with horrid
fear. The roast, the roast! Thank God they found it, down at the bottom
of the basket. Oh, thank _God_! The pacing was resumed.
Up and down, up and down. One would have perceived here, so far as
externals went, merely a quiet, middle-aged clergyman strolling in
his home. Yet in the cottage living room this clergyman and this
angry Dutch clock together synthesized contemporary events. "Trouble,
trouble, trouble, trouble!" ticked the clock sharply. And each step
in the Rev. Needham's pacing seemed a question. As the years crept by,
broadening vision seemed not very materially to be quieting the good
man's fidgets and perturbations. It seemed merely to give them longer
tether; for his unsettled state was organic. It would never be really
otherwise. Religion, science, feeling, thought, reason--all alike, in
their several directions, seemed impotent to anchor him. The sea was
too deep. He might, of course, _call_ himself anchored; but alas, the
cruel little demons of doubt and quandary were bound, sooner or later,
to insinuate themselves back into his heart. His walk was groping,
indecisive. Each step was a question: "Whither? Why? How long? What is
best? What is best? _What is best?_"
Miss Whitcom stood meditatively before the somewhat wavy mirror in
her little room. She was pondering past, present, future. Also, she
was acknowledging that grey hairs had perceptibly multiplied since
O'Donnell last saw her. Would he notice them? And if he did? Well? She
contemplated herself and her life in the wavy mirror.
Beyond his own three-quarters partition, Barry happened at the same
moment to be standing before a mirror also--as men do sometimes, who
would be sure to deny the charge were it publicly preferred against
them. Yes, he was getting along. Not in any sense _old_, of course. To
some a man of thirty-three seems still a young man. He tried to look at
it that way. Still thirty-three was thirty-three. And Louise.... She
was young, so young--and fresh, and sweet, and adorable.... His quiet
eyes misted a moment as he thought of her. And for her sake he could
wish himself one of those fabulous princes we read of in childhood. Ah,
yes--a kind of prince--just for her sake! He regarded himself in the
glass solemnly and critically. There were undeniable lines of salient
maturity in his face; and princes, that was sure, never had any lines
at all. So young, so sweet, so charming! He sighed and went about
unpacking his things. That he should win her--that he should win this
dear girl for his wife ...!
"I have done nothing to deserve such happiness as this," he said
softly. "In all my life, nothing, nothing!"
And then he took a ring out of a little box and gazed at it. And when
he had gazed at it a long time, he put it back in the box and put the
box in his pocket.
Louise, in the seclusion of her room, no longer wept, though she still
lay on the bed. Tears had relieved the strain, and her heart was not
so burdened. Slowly reviving, she lay in a sort of half pleasant
lethargy--not thinking, exactly, nor even actually feeling, for the
moment. Tears are like suave drugs: under their mystic persuasion
life may assume the lovely softness of a mirage. But the softness is
fleeting. It rests and it is gone. It is like false dawn. Or it is like
a dream of light when the night is blackest.
4
Marjory and Anna met outside the cottage in a little rustic bower
where there was a hammock, and where the Rev. Needham had constructed,
with his own hands, a clumsy and rather unstable rustic bench. It had
taken him nearly all one summer to build this bench. The clergyman had
perspired a great deal, and gone about with a dogged look. They were
all mightily relieved when the task was at last completed. It seemed to
simplify life.
Mrs. Needham sat on the rustic bench now, fanning herself with her
white apron. Her face was flushed, her manner a little wild. She
and Eliza had reached the agonizing conclusion that the raisins,
indispensable to the Indian meal pudding, hadn't come, only to discover
the little package lying out on the path where it had slipped from the
grocer boy's basket. The pudding was saved, but what a shock to one's
whole system!
"Well, Anna," said her sister, dropping fearlessly into the hammock.
None but newcomers possessed that sublime faith in hammock ropes!
"I declare!" returned Anna. "Whew!"--her apron moving rapidly--"So
warm!"
"Well, have you been charging up hillsides, or racing Alfred on the
beach?"
Mrs. Needham looked a little startled at the irreverent allusion. "Oh,
no, only planning with Eliza, and--"
"You find Eliza a treasure, don't you?"
"Yes, she's very capable."
"I suppose a maid's capability must take on a special lustre in the
wilderness. Don't you sometimes fancy you see a faint halo over Eliza's
head? You people in this luxurious country have become so dependent,
I don't know what you _would_ do if there should ever be a general
strike!"
"No, I don't know either," admitted Mrs. Needham. "Eliza talks of
going back. It's so quiet up here--girls don't like it. We've raised
her twice. I really don't know what's going to be the end of the help
question. And wages ...!" She raised her eyes to the heavens.
A short silence followed. Marjory swung gently back and forth in the
hammock. She might have been pronounced an eloquent embodiment of
perfect calm; and yet her heart was curiously bumping about.
"Anna," she asked slowly, "do you remember Barrett O'Donnell?"
Her sister looked at her queerly a moment. "Some friend, Marjory?" For
Marjory had had, in her time, so many friends!
"You'll remember him, I know, when you see him," she nodded. And then
she continued: "He's here."
"Here?"
"Well," her sister laughed, "not quite on the Point, but at Crystalia."
"Really?"
"Dear old Barrett! I wonder...."
"Marjory," the other asked, with an odd effect of conscious shrewdness,
"is he--is Mr. O'Donnell _the_ man?"
"For goodness sake, _what_ man, Anna?"
"Why, I always felt," her sister replied quaintly, "that there was one
man, all through the years--'way from the time we stopped telling each
other secrets...."
Marjory laughed loudly. But she seemed touched also. "It's a long time,
isn't it, since we stopped telling secrets?"
And Anna sighed, for perhaps her retrospect, if less exciting, was even
longer than her sister's.
The two sat, after that, a little while without speaking. Then Anna's
large round face assumed a truly brilliant expression.
"Marjory!" she cried.
"Well?"
"You say he's here?"
"Um, though it seems impossible to credit such a thing. Perhaps it's
all a myth. He's at the Elmbrook Inn. Is there," she whimsically
faltered, "--is there honestly such a place?"
"Marjie, I mean to have him up!"
"Anna--you mean here?"
"For _luncheon_!"
In their excitement the two ladies were really all but shouting at each
other. They realized it and smiled; sank to quieter attitudes both of
bearing and speech.
"You think he'd come, don't you Marjie?"
"Come? Ra_ther_! Did you ever hear of a travelling man turning down a
chance at home cooking?"
"Then I'm going to send right over and invite him. It will be real fun!
I suppose," she embroidered, with as great an effect of roguery as she
could enlist, "I suppose he's followed you up!"
"Obviously!" her sister replied, not apparently flustered in the least.
"Think of it!"
"Yes, it is rather dreadful, isn't it--especially at our ages!"
"I think it's kind of splendid, Marjie."
"Er--Alfred never was much of what you'd call the 'following' kind, was
he Anna?"
"Well, I can't seem to remember. It seems to me once...."
"Oh, they'll nearly always follow _once_. It's keeping right on that
seems hard. Of course," she added, "marriage puts a stop to all that
sort of thing, doesn't it?"
"Yes, I suppose, in a sense...."
"Anna, there's just one way to keep 'em going: _don't marry_! Well,
you see for yourself how it is."
"Yes, but it seems kind of dreadful to put it that way, don't it?"
"Dreadful? Oh, yes. Yes, of course it's dreadful. Still, it's rather
nice."
"M-m-m," murmured Anna.
The philosophy of man's pursuit proved baffling. Here were two sisters
who knew its bitters and its sweets. Yet it is doubtful if for either
the bitter was all bitter and the sweet all sweet....
Hilda and Leslie came back from the tennis tournament. They were hot
and in high spirits.
"Who won?" asked Mrs. Needham cheerily.
"We did, mama!"
"Three cheers!" cried Miss Whitcom, sitting up enthusiastically in the
hammock.
"You never saw such excitement!" cried Hilda. "Most of the games were
deuce for both sides before anybody got it!"
"Very close," was Leslie's simpler version.
Louise crept to her window and peered down into the bower. Hilda and
Leslie were holding one racquet between them. It was his racquet and
she was twining her fingers playfully in and out among the strings. A
feeling of suffocation closed suddenly upon Louise's throat.
And just then Barry walked into the bower. He had been exploring the
delightful wild endroit, and hoping that Louise might suddenly appear,
with some lovely tangle of wood and vine for background. For he hailed
from a country where trees are scarce, and one's backgrounds from
childhood are sand, desert sand. His life had grown suddenly so rich....
Barry was welcomed. Mrs. Needham made room for him beside her on the
rustic bench. She looked at him a little shyly, but with the ecstatic
admiration, also, of one who would say: "This is the man we're giving
our daughter to!"
But where _was_ Louise? Her mother had scarcely seen her since the
return from Frankfort. How strangely she was behaving.
"I believe she's lying down," said Barry, his tone warm with shielding
tenderness and apology. "She got up so early to meet the boat. It was
wonderful of her!"
The two young champions were giving Aunt Marjie a fuller account of
the tennis combat. They still held the racquet between them. Both were
flushed, keen-eyed, ridiculously happy. How soon he had recovered!
Louise, up at her window, remembered Leslie's mood at an earlier hour.
At dawn she might have had him. Now it was too late. "Oh, the injustice
of it!" she cried, her hands crushing her breast. But as she looked
down into his glowing face, she realized a swift sense of humiliation.
"He didn't care after all," she told herself.
Hilda and Leslie evinced great willingness to convey the luncheon
invitation to Barrett O'Donnell. Leslie, of course, volunteered to
go, and Hilda, of course, said she simply _would_ go too. So off they
raced, still holding the tennis racquet between them.
Louise watched them go. In her hand was the book she had bought in
Frankfort. Suddenly, under stress of very violent emotion, she pressed
it against her cheek.
Barry watched them out of sight. He was thinking of Louise. She had not
yet kissed him. In his pocket was a little box, and inside the little
box was a ring.
Marjory also watched them go. She sighed even as she smiled: "Another
young thing, just starting out--boy-crazy. So futile." But she smiled
more radiantly in spite of herself, and the other valuation _would_
slip in: "So sweet!"
5
The porti;res between the dining room and the living room at Beachcrest
are carefully drawn. The whole company is assembled, waiting. It is
one o'clock, the vitriolic Dutch timepiece on the mantel having just
snapped out the hungry truth.
The clock, with its quenchless petulance and spite, is lord of the
mantel. And what an entourage of vessels! Close up against it huddles
a bottle of peroxide. Then, although disposed in some semblance of
neatness and order, one discovers a fish stringer, an old pipe, several
empty cigar boxes, heaps of old letters, a book opened and turned down,
a number of rumpled handkerchiefs, some camera films, a bottle of red
ink. There are two odd candlesticks, without any candles, a metal dish
containing a vast miscellany of pins, collar buttons, rubber bands, and
who knows what? Lo, on the other side of the clock loiter a curious
pebble, a laundry list, a box of candy, some loose change and a little
paper money, a pocket flash which no longer works, matches in a broken
crockery receiver, perfumes, sandpaper, a writing tablet and some
yellowing envelopes. And one glimpses, emerging from chaos, the frayed
handle of a whisk broom which has seen immeasurably better days. Some
woven grass baskets, too. Anything else? Yes, yonder is a box of tacks,
and beside it a little pile of the Rev. Needham's socks, nicely darned.
Also, strewn here and there, are various rail and steamship timetables,
most of which bear the dates of seasons long gone by. An immortal
miscellany! Oh, and one must not miss that curious creature squatting
in a dim corner and peering ever alertly around with his little beady
eyes: yes, a sad and much dilapidated Teddy Bear.
One o'clock!
There is a tendency on the part of every pair of eyes--even those of
the Rev. Needham, or perhaps especially those--to direct from time to
time a wholly unconscious glance of hope mingled with mild anxiety
toward the tantalizing green porti;res, beyond which Eliza moves about
with maddening deliberateness.
One o'clock, snapping like a dry forest twig under the tread of some
wild creature. Then an angry _tick_-tock, _tick_-tock. On and on and
on, forever.
Out in the kitchen Eliza was prodding the kettle of soup. She was
dreamily thinking of the porter at the hotel in Beulah. Would he get
over this evening? Oh, love is so wonderful! Eliza was quite gauche and
unlettered; yet love, for her, was a thing which could rouse brilliant
orgies of the imagination. Love, even for her, was something which
transcended all the ineffable promised glories of Heaven itself. Yes,
it was better than the streets of pearl and the gates of amethyst--or
was it the gates of pearl and the streets of gold?
When the soup was ready she served it, then thrust asunder the
porti;res. "Lunch is served, ma'am," she announced, with a degree of
majesty which would simply have terrorized the Beulah porter.
They responded promptly--not exactly crowding ahead of each other, but
stepping along with irreproachable briskness. Appetites beside the sea
are like munition factories in wartime.
There was a cheerful rattle of chairs and much scraping of feet under
the table. Then a solemn silence, while the minister prayed. The Rev.
Needham, of course, sat at the head of the table. Mrs. Needham sat
opposite him at the foot. To the minister's right was Miss Whitcom,
who found herself delightfully sandwiched in between a knight of
the church and a knight of the grip. Needless to say, the latter
was Mr. O'Donnell, looking his very nicest and smelling of soap
like the Brushwood Boy. Next came Hilda, who flashed quite dazzling
smiles across at her sister, smiles more subdued and shy at Mr.
Barry. There was a flurry of conversation at first, while the paper
napkins were being opened up and disposed where they would afford the
most protection--not a great deal, it is to be feared, at best. And
then--well, then there was almost no talk at all until after the soup.
As they say in theatre programs: "The curtain will be lowered one
minute to denote a lapse of time."
Miss Whitcom and Mr. O'Donnell had employed quite as little formality
in their meeting as the latter had prophesied during the trip up to
Beulah. She hadn't, as a matter of fact, referred to the wall paper in
the throne room of the Queen's palace. Instead she had remarked: "You
know, it's curious. I was just dropping you a note. Yes. I wanted, for
one thing, to express my regret over the unlikelihood of our seeing
each other this trip, since you see I'm going right back. Jolly you
should have happened along like this--and a postage stamp saved into
the bargain!" While he, swallowing his disappointment over the prospect
of her immediate return to Tahulamaji, had replied in like spirit: "How
fortunate--about the stamp, I mean. It _has_ been a long while, hasn't
it?"
And now they were sitting side by side at the table, rather
monopolizing the conversation--having a beautiful time, yet never quite
descending from that characteristic, mutually assumed tone of banter.
"I suppose you're still travelling, Mr. O'Donnell?"
"Still travelling, Miss Whitcom."
"Same firm?"
"Same firm."
It had been the same firm almost as far back as memory went. It always
would be the same firm. There was little of change and perhaps nothing
at all of adventure in this destiny. But there was a rather substantial
balance in the bank, which, after all, is a kind of adventure, too.
"Babbit & Babbit," she mused.
"Members of the O. A. of C."
"True. I'm afraid I'd forgotten the letters at the end."
He nibbled at his celery. "And you, Miss Whitcom?"
"Still mostly travelling, Mr. O'Donnell."
"Same firm?"
"Oh, dear no! There the interesting parallel must cease. One has to be
progressive, you know. One must keep abreast of the times." She gave
her brother-in-law a dreadful, broad wink. "What was I doing last?"
O'Donnell grinned. "I believe--wasn't it piloting tourists through
Europe?"
"Do you mean to tell me it's been as long as that since I've seen you?"
"As I recollect it--something of the sort."
"Yes, yes. So it was. But that was before the war. You knew, of course,
that I'd gone to Tahulamaji."
"You answered several of my letters," he reminded her sweetly.
"Ah, of course I did. And you should have felt highly flattered, for I
may say I made no point of keeping up any sort of correspondence at all
down there."
"I should say not!" put in Mrs. Needham, laughing.
"Oh, yes. I was flattered--flattered even if they were only postcards.
But I haven't yet got it straight what you were doing in Tahulamaji.
Was it the same sort of thing there?"
"What! Piloting tourists?" She had a hearty laugh. Her brother-in-law
started a little. One of Marjory's hearty laughs was always like an
unexpected slap on the back.
"You mean there aren't any sights to show?" asked O'Donnell meekly. "I
don't even know where Tahulamaji is, and I haven't the faintest idea
what it's like."
"Oh," she laughed, "there are plenty of sights. It's ever so much
better than Europe!"
"Then why _not_ pilot?"
"There aren't any tourists."
"Not any at all?"
"None, at least, who require piloting. You see, we haven't been
sufficiently exploited yet. For some reason we've escaped so far,
though I expect any day to hear that we've been discovered. Those who
come are bent on plain, stern business. Most of them get away again
the next day. Those who don't get off the next day, or at most the day
after that, you may depend upon it have come to stay--like me."
"So you are quite determined to go back again."
"Quite. Why not?"
They gazed quietly at each other a moment, while the minister began
dispensing dried-beef-in-cream-on-toast--a special Beachcrest dish;
French-fried potatoes. Mrs. Needham watched with quaking heart until
it was patent there would be enough to go round. Then she began pouring
the tea.
There was always, at any rate, plenty of tea. But Miss Whitcom nearly
occasioned a panic by asking for lemon. The rest took cream, if for no
better reason than that it was right there on the table. The demand
had been, like everything Miss Whitcom did, unpremeditated, and was
immediately withdrawn. She tossed her head and laughed. Wasn't it
absurd to ask for lemon in the wilderness? But Anna Needham rose to the
occasion. It was a crisis.
She tinkled the bell in a breathless yet resolute way; she so wanted to
impress her sister as being a competent housekeeper. It amounted almost
to a passion. Perhaps living so long with Alfred had rather tended to
weaken belief in her own abilities.
Eliza was gone a good while. But she triumphantly returned with the
lemon. Mr. O'Donnell looked at Miss Whitcom's tea a little wistfully.
He had already taken cream. Possibly he preferred lemon too. But it
requires real genius to ask for what one doesn't see before one in this
law-of-least-resistance world.
This slight tension removed, the Rev. Needham resumed a quiet
conversation with Barry about the affairs in the West. Everything,
it seemed, was going finely. It began to look as though they
might all grow positively rich off the desert! And it was owing
to Barry--entirely to him. Well, Barry was a fine young man--so
_completely_ satisfactory. If the Needhams had had a son, Alfred
would have wished him to be like Barry. Sure, patient, untiring,
generous--generous to a fault, yet with such solid faculties for
business! And now, here he was, about to step right into the family. It
was too good to be true. Yes, much too good. The Rev. Needham swelled
with pride and beamed with affection. He beamed on Barry, and never
noted how his daughter sat there beside this paragon, eating little,
talking almost not at all....
Hilda was another member of the party who talked little. Her
deportment, however, was quite different. Her cheeks were highly
coloured, and her eyes sparkled. Aunt Marjie, who seemed somehow
never too engrossed in anything to give good heed to everything else,
looked curiously from Hilda to Louise, to Barry, from Barry on to her
brother-in-law. Then she looked at Hilda again, recalling Leslie,
and smiled. She looked at Louise again, also, then at Barry, and her
expression grew more serious. She looked at Louise a third time, still
with Leslie in the back of her mind, and thought of the forgotten stove
burners....
Why was it, she asked herself, that men had to make such baffling
differences in women's lives?
6
After luncheon the company broke up. The Rev. Needham announced, just
a little stiffly (for he felt the upsetting gaze of his sister-in-law)
that it was customary at Beachcrest to spend a quiet hour, at this
point of the day's span, napping. He wanted to create an easy home
atmosphere, and the most effective way seemed to be to impress
outsiders with the fact that everything was really running along just
as though none but the immediate family was present.
Miss Whitcom yawned at once. "Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "I'm
_horribly_ sleepy. Never would have dreamed what was the matter with
me, Alfred, if you hadn't come to the rescue. I _am_ grateful!"
And then--and then the Rev. Needham did a tremendous, a revolutionary,
a gigantic and unforgettable thing. He simply overwhelmed himself and
everybody else by making an almost low bow!
Mrs. Needham uttered a tiny gasp--she really couldn't help it. What had
gotten into Alfred? Then she laughed, a little too shrilly, as by way
of heralding to all the Point the glorious, glad tidings that there
was, at last, a genuine, wholesome, jolly home atmosphere established.
Yes, the bow was inspired. There was no other way of looking at it. The
bow was an inspired bow.
And what had come over the Rev. Needham was this: He had suddenly, in a
sort of buoyant flare, determined that Marjory's manner would have to
be played up to! It was simply ridiculous--scandalous--to allow himself
to be disturbed and even secretly harassed by his wife's own sister.
Yes, it was little short of a scandal! And now, rather tardily, it may
be admitted, the Rev. Needham had attained salvation. It was simply
to make a low bow. How clever--and how exquisitely subtle! He laughed
aloud with the rest. His feet were squarely on the ground, after all.
Of course they were. And splendidly, magnificently he defied the
prickly feeling to come again into his heels!
The Rev. Needham was, in truth, privately so captivated with this
curious and unforeseen twist in his fortunes that he forgot all about
his own customary fatigue: forgot that this was the hour of quiet at
Beachcrest--rendered so by immemorial precedent. He swaggered a little,
without, of course, quite losing the ministerial poise; and spoke up,
as his wife afterward phrased it, "real brisk and hearty." Cigars were
passed to Barry and O'Donnell. The Rev. Needham bit into one himself.
It is altogether possible he might, under the influence of this new
heroic emotion, have distributed cigarettes, had there been anything so
devilish on the premises.
As the box went blithely back on to the mantel, Miss Whitcom, who was
greatly enjoying what she perfectly fathomed, perceived an irresistible
obligation to suggest that he had gone only half way around. The Rev.
Needham looked perhaps just a shade startled. Could he bow again? And
if not, how else was her manner to be played up to? Had he already
struck a snag? Obviously it would be going a little too far to take her
at her word and offer her a cigar.
"One wants to be sociable, you know," she said, her eyes sparkling.
"I know of a lady poet in the East who smokes cigars," volunteered
O'Donnell.
He spoke quite easily, as though for Miss Whitcom's special benefit,
and to convey the impression that he had quite grown accustomed or
reconciled to such dainty feminine indulgence. Indeed, he looked at her
with shy sprightliness.
"Oh, yes," she replied, "and, if you remember, a lady novelist started
the custom."
He didn't remember, but he chuckled. And she went on: "As a matter of
fact, and just amongst ourselves, why shouldn't women smoke if they
want to? And why shouldn't they _want_ to? Isn't it perfectly natural
they should? I'm not, strictly speaking, championing the habit, for
it's expensive and rather silly. But if half the human race wants to
turn itself into portable smoke stacks, then by all means let the other
half follow suit. So you see, Alfred, you'd really better let me have
one. For you hear for yourself, Mr. O'Donnell knows of a poet who
smokes. Of course," she admitted, "I'm not a poet."
But O'Donnell was certainly in a romantic mood today. He wouldn't
let her admission stand. "Yes, you are," he began, with an odd
impulsiveness, adding in a quieter though quite as fervent tone: "--a
kind of poet...."
They eyed each other steadily a moment, as they had done once or twice
before, that day. It was surely another O'Donnell than the O'Donnell of
long ago--the O'Donnell, for instance, who had eased up at the finish
and let her win the race. Was she, also, in a way, another Marjory? A
Marjory, after all, rather less insistent upon, or who had grown just
a tiny bit weary of, doing things simply to be independent--simply for
the joy of doing them gloriously and daringly alone?
When the gentlemen had repaired to the porch to smoke and to discuss,
as is the custom at such times, matters too deep to be grasped by the
feminine intellect, Miss Whitcom succeeded in confronting Louise.
"Now," she said, with a warm, inviting firmness which brought a flash
of tears to the girl's eyes.
She laid an arm around Louise's shoulders, and they stood thus together
a few moments in the middle of the cottage living room. Could the Rev.
Needham have looked in upon this affecting picture, and could those
small eager ears of his have partaken of the subsequent talk which
passed between them, the cigar of confidence and authority would have
dropped from his fingers, its brave spark dimmed forever. Yes, he would
have forgotten completely the brilliant bow which had seemed to smooth
away all of life's snarls by giving him, marvellously, in an instant,
a positive, almost Nietzschean philosophy. But for the present he was
safe.
"How could things have gone so far without your realizing?"
"I don't know."
"But you must know how you feel toward him!" Louise shook her head
miserably. "I thought I cared.... Perhaps I still do."
"But aren't you sure?"
"I--I don't believe I know. I don't seem sure of anything."
"But, my dear child--"
"I _thought_ I was sure."
"And all those letters--"
"Yes, yes," cried Louise tensely. "You see it was all letters, Aunt
Marjie. And when I came suddenly to see him again...."
"Oh, come, child, we don't fall in love with men's hats and the twist
of their profiles. You must still love whatever it was you loved all
those long months you were apart. Isn't it reasonable?"
"I--I...." Oh, what was the use of asking her to be reasonable? What
has a heart full of ghosts to do with reason? And Leslie....
She felt like crying. She began looking upon herself as almost a person
who has been somehow wronged. Her emotion grew thicker. She drew shyly
away.
Aunt Marjie, as she let her go from her, realizing that words just now
would get them nowhere, was thinking that in the midst of a universe
full of souls and wheeling planets, one poor heartache was like a grain
of dust. Well, perhaps she _was_ a kind of poet. But in a moment the
impersonal millions, both of souls and of stars, vanished away, and
this girl's problem ascended to a position of tremendous importance, if
not quite of majesty.
At length, after he had smoked his cigar, the Rev. Needham did retire
to the couch of his wonted siesta, leaving the household, as he
thought, pleasantly and profitably disposed.
Of course, the fact that the host proposed to take a nap did not mean
that all the others had to follow suit. It was just part of the device
for making every one feel that nothing was being upset because of
"company." It did not mean that O'Donnell, for instance, would have to
subject himself to the rather embarrassing alternative of curling up
on the short living room sofa. Miss Whitcom and Mr. O'Donnell happily
repaired to the rustic bower. Hilda skipped off singing into the woods.
Mrs. Needham--well, Mrs. Needham was still in the kitchen with Eliza.
The latter was stolidly eating her luncheon of left-overs on the very
table to which Louise and Leslie had sat down at dawn. Mrs. Needham
stood solemnly before Eliza as she ate, her hands on her hips, her
face growing flushed again, talking endlessly--about dinner. Louise
and Lynndal Barry were on the porch. Lovers were so brazen, nowadays,
they didn't mind at all if the partitions between their embraces and
the outside world were mere mosquito gauze. The Rev. Needham, slyly
recognizing this great truth, chuckled over it, in his new mood of
sublime assurance, all the way upstairs. Each step cracked, and all the
way up he was telling himself contentedly: "A fine young man--one of
God's own noblemen!" And as gentle slumber wafted his soul into a peace
which, especially on a full stomach, so often passeth understanding, he
whispered dreamily: "Coming right into the family...."
Thank God the Western interests were forever safeguarded!
But meanwhile, out on the porch, the situation grew from moment to
moment more poignant.
Louise seemed suddenly to be sparring for time. She had decided--as
well as her giddy little brain was capable, just now, of deciding
anything at all--that the whole crux of the matter was her
disappointment over the way Lynndal had turned out.... But what Aunt
Marjie had said about not loving his hat and the twist of his profile
anyhow had rather upset her again. Once she almost flung herself into
his arms with a great, comfortable, forgiving, beseeching, surrendering
cry. What a haven his arms might seem! But something in her heart, she
imagined, warned her: "You cannot yet! Dare you? Remember--it would be
irrevocable!"
Time, time! There was obviously an issue to be faced. But with all
the vital eloquence of desperation Louise reasoned that bitterness
deferred might somehow lose a degree of its sting. Feeble logic, and
logic not very profound; but she was scarcely in a frame of mind to
evolve, at the present moment, any logic more substantial. Her problem
was delicate, tenuous, like the sheen on the wings of a butterfly.
Her tragedy was a thing of shades and of shadows--a thing wellnigh
ungraspable. But it was none the less real. Oh, it was very real
to her! In an orgy of the ma;ana spirit she abandoned herself to
eventualities as they should develop. Her fate--whatever it was going
to prove--would rush on and overtake her; she would not go out to meet
it half way. Dared not.
"I'm afraid you'll think me not very cordial," she said desperately,
"but I have a headache, Lynndal, and I'm going to ask if you'd mind if
I went up to my room for a little while...."
"Oh," he cried, in real and honest distress, "I'm so sorry! Why didn't
you tell me before? Perhaps the smoke has been annoying you?"
"Oh, it's nothing," she answered, smiling in the wan way common to
invalids for whom the end is in sight. "These headaches come on, quite
suddenly sometimes. If I lie down for an hour, it will be gone, I
think."
"I'm sorry, dear," he repeated, touching her elbow as she turned to
leave him. The contact emboldened him and he slipped an arm round her
waist and bent over her a little as he walked with her toward the door.
"You shouldn't have tried to meet me this morning, dear. It was too
much."
"I wanted to," she murmured huskily.
"Will you come out again later?" he pleaded, content, under the
circumstances, that she should leave him now.
Louise nodded and passed into the cottage.
"Couldn't we take a little walk on the beach later, if your head is
better? Later on, when the sun isn't quite so hot?"
She turned and murmured: "Yes." There was another impulse to throw
herself into his arms; she longed to go to him and cry against his
heart. But at the same moment she remembered Leslie--how close he
had held her in the morning, how they had kissed.... The impulse was
stifled.
When she was gone from him, Barry sat down again on the porch to finish
his cigar. It was the cigar which the Rev. Needham had given him after
luncheon. It was a good cigar, for the Rev. Needham knew what was what,
despite his intense holiness.
Barry was one of those rare individuals who have never really loved
before. Curiously, the insatiable god Eros had passed him largely by
till now. But ah--the tardy fevers! They may be more virulent than
those of timelier visitation.... His eye swept the curve of the white
beach, ablaze with the mid-day sun. Later they would be strolling there
together, he and she. He would be walking out there beside this dear
girl whose love had thrilled to the dull roots of his bachelordom. And
then he would tell her how he adored her; would open the little box and
slip the ring on her finger....
It was so wonderful, after dwelling in the desert all his life!
7
She really did have a very little headache; though this was the least
of her troubles.
There sounded a whistle outside. In the midst of her wretchedness,
Louise lifted her head and listened. Low and sustained, it had saluted
her ear when dawn's pink flush was in the sky; but now it seemed far
more eager; it seemed to glint through the sunshine.
Springing to her window, Louise crouched there. The historical novel
lay on the sill, where she had left it. Her fingers closed tensely
about it, although she did not at first realize what it was she was
clutching. Leslie was outside. She could see him coming on through
the forest, and caught her breath in a little hysterical gasp of joy.
Leslie! She couldn't let him go! She loved him! She had never, she
felt, loved anybody as she loved Leslie. Oh, the injustice of it!
That he must be denied her, though it was he she loved the best! But
there _must_ be a way. Somehow, somehow she must contrive.... She must
contrive, whatever it might cost, to keep him.... But she faltered.
Wasn't it too late?
His hands were in his pockets; his face was richly animated; his eyes
were full of light. Leslie was almost handsome--ah, strangely more
beautiful now than when she had wanted to be his friend. His brightness
dazzled her; and she looked out at him through her perplexed tears.
He had held her for a moment in his arms as they stood, so deeply
enthralled, on that dappled forest road. Would he ever hold her in his
arms again?
"Leslie!" she murmured.
He halted, looking quickly about.
"I'm here," she continued, in the same unhappy tone, "--up here!" They
were the very words Lynndal had used when he stood above her on the
deck of the steamer.
And it was plain, too painfully plain, Leslie had not been searching
her window. At first he appeared a little embarrassed. An indefinite
numbness closed about her heart. It seemed, all at once, as though
retrospect embodied no mutual past for these two. Intimate strangers!
For all at once Leslie seemed as essentially unknown and aloof from her
destiny as Lynndal had seemed during that first curious, bewildering
moment when his steamer was coming in. Leslie--merely a lad passing by
outside, under her window. And she blushed at the thought of having
dared to speak to him....
"Do you know where Hilda is?" he enquired, trying to throw a great deal
of carelessness into both tone and posture.
Louise miserably shook her head.
"I was to meet her," Leslie explained simply. And, smiling, he turned
with abruptness and began strolling off. He could be cool enough when
it pleased him.
"Leslie!" she cried out, though discreetly. For she dared not let
Lynndal hear her. In volume her voice by no means matched its almost
terrible intensity.
The tone arrested him. "What?" And he stopped and looked bluntly back
at the window.
"Wait, Leslie, I think I know where Hilda is."
"Where?"
"Wait just a minute. I'm coming down. Will you come around to the back
door?"
He nodded, too indifferent to voice the curiosity he might normally be
expected to feel over her desire to emerge from the back rather than
from the front door of the cottage.
As she flew, a sudden determination swayed her. Both men, she argued,
were strangers again. _She must win Leslie back!_
When she stole out to him a moment later, he was loitering casually
in the vicinity of a little shed where driftwood was kept. The Rev.
Needham always made a point of talking about the rare quality of
surf-wood blazes. The Rev. Needham had constructed this shed also with
his own hands, just as he had constructed the remarkable rustic bench;
only the shed had taken another summer, of course. This shed was really
a Beachcrest institution; so was likewise the perennial lugging up
of driftwood for storage therein recognized to be an almost religious
adjunct of Point life. There was an informal rule--of ancient standing,
playfully enough conceived, and of course playfully laid down--that
no one should come in from the beach without at least one piece of
driftwood. Much preferably, of course, a respectable, staggering
armful. The rule _was_ wholly playful; and yet, should several days
pass with no contribution at all to the shed, Mrs. Needham and the
girls would be troubled, and perhaps even a trifle frightened, to
behold the minister himself tottering in with a colossal load. He would
cast reproachful glances their way. And it would sometimes be a long
while before he regained any sort of serenity. Yet it was a favourite
maxim with the Rev. Needham that they came up here to the cottage for
sheer relaxation and amusement.
Leslie had selected from the shed a smooth splinter, once part of a
ship's spar. He had taken out his knife and was busy whittling. And
he kept at this self-imposed task quite doggedly, seeming to find in
it a certain sanctuary. His eyes scrupulously followed the slashings
of the blade. Thus they avoided hers--for the most part without too
deliberately seeming to do so. Louise was herself dimly grateful for
the distraction.
"What do you think I found in Frankfort this morning?" she demanded,
trying to smile with something of the old bewitchment. The historical
novel was clasped behind her. She had certainly not meant to show it
to him; yet here it was.
"I give _up_," he replied, accentuating the final word with a
particularly telling stroke on the spar splinter.
Then she drew the book slowly round into sight and half extended it, as
though it were an offering that might effect a return, somehow, to that
golden relationship which Lynndal's coming had broken off.
"A book?" He went on whittling.
"You haven't even read the title!" she cried, half pleadingly.
"Something new?"
"Why, Les...."
Glancing back at the book, he merely muttered: "Oh."
"You remember you were telling me about it. I happened to see it in a
window." She spoke a little hysterically, and began wishing she had not
come down. "Only think--in a town like Frankfort, of all places! I was
so surprised that I walked right in and bought it! I--I expect to enjoy
it very much," she ended miserably.
Leslie whittled, still stubbornly taciturn. If he would ask about
Lynndal--if he would only show _some_ kind of emotion: anything would
be better than this awful silence. Finally, since he thus forced her
hand, Louise reminded him that she had previously intimated a knowledge
of her sister's whereabouts.
"_Do_ you know where she is?" he looked at her with a furtive flash of
interest.
"I think she's gone to the tree-house."
"Alone?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Long ago?"
"No, not so very long."
Leslie began humming, and shifted restlessly.
"I think you'd find her there, Les, if you wanted to find her. But
if...." She left it dumbly in the air.
Still the boy hummed, his eyes never leaving the spar.
"Are you two going for a hike, or something?"
He stirred and looked up quickly at a little red squirrel chattering on
a bough above them. "We're going to cut sticks for the roast tonight."
"Is there to be a roast?"
"The mid-summer Assembly Roast," he explained, a little pointedly.
There seemed no reason for one's forgetting so important an event as
the Assembly Roast.
"Oh, yes," she replied. "I'd forgotten all about it, for the moment.
Will it be over beyond the lighthouse?"
"Yes, clear around the Point."
"Sticks, you mean, for marshmallows?" How obvious it all sounded!
"Marshmallows and wienies," he told her. "There will have to be at
least three dozen sticks, so I guess I'd better...."
The little squirrel chattered brazenly on above them. A locust was
shrilling somewhere across the dazzling sand. She told herself she had
given him every chance.
"You mustn't let me keep you, Les."
"Oh, that's all right."
She had given him every chance. He did not care, after all. She had
been deceived in him. Oh, the injustice of it all!
"I must go find Mr. Barry," she said. "He'll wonder what's become of
me!" And she forced a brief little laugh. "It will be lots of fun. I'd
forgotten all about the mid-summer roast! I'll--we'll see you there...."
"Yes," he answered.
Their eyes suddenly met. She flushed, and her throat ached. He turned
slowly away.
"Good-bye, Les."
"Good-bye," he answered.
Louise re;ntered the cottage by the back door. Eliza was singing over
her work at the sink. And Leslie, smiling in a kind of baffling way,
strolled off, still whittling the broken spar.
And Eros skipped beside him. Eros knew well enough where the tree-house
was. He didn't have to be shown, for as a matter of fact he had helped
construct it, up in the crotch of a giant oak: had subsequently climbed
nimbly to the tiny empire of its seclusion in the interest of many a
summer twain. Yes, Eros knew the way quite well. However, for the sheer
sake of companionship, he chose to skip along by the side of a lad who
was whittling a broken spar and smiling in a kind of baffling way.
8
"The Queen of Tahulamaji," admitted Miss Whitcom, "was really a most
amazing creature."
"I should think it likely."
They were sitting together on the rustic bench. At first he had been on
the rustic bench alone. She had flung herself in the hammock. But the
interest of their talk had brought her first to a sitting posture, then
to a standing posture, and finally to a rustic bench posture.
"Ah, but you mustn't think just because she was amazing that she wasn't
also perfectly human--sometimes almost desperately so, O'Donnell!"
"Yes, I suppose so. I can somehow picture her--especially the desperate
times."
"Well, of course she did have her eccentricities. For instance, her
temper. To the last it remained most alarmingly and deliciously
undependable."
"To the last?"
"Ah, yes--poor Tessie!"
"Tessie?"
"I always called her that. It wasn't strictly Tahulamajian, but she
adored the name."
"So the Queen is dead?"
"Yes, Queen Tess died early in the spring. She was terribly old, but
game right up to the last minute. You never saw such gameness. The
funeral was immensely impressive."
"Whole populace turned out, of course?"
"Ra_ther_. Ostracism threatened against any who stayed away without a
valid excuse! And they carried her along, all dressed up in her robes
of state, and even with a crown on. Poor, dear Tessie! How often she
used to say to me in private, when the mats were all snug over the
doors: 'You know there are times,' she'd say, 'when I have my doubts
about all this sovereign divinity business. It's down in the state
books that I'm one of the direct line, descended from Mentise-huhu and
the gods of the Sea Foam. But there are times when I have my doubts,'
she used to say. 'There are times when I seem to be just Tessie, and
between you and me, I'm coming to suspect that there never were any
gods of the Sea Foam at all!'"
O'Donnell smiled at her look of momentary abstraction. What a life
Marjory's had been--what a life! Here he found her, at last, in the
heart of a religious colony. But at one time she had sold bonds in
Wall Street; she had been an agent for a Pacific steamship line; she
had been a political organizer in the North-west; and she had once
served as associate editor of a newspaper. Yes, she had always struck
O'Donnell--himself so simple and homely of nature--as most violently
revolutionary. He remembered how, in the early days, she used to march
in suffrage parades. She had taken up Socialism and dropped it; had
smoked; and he distinctly recalled her having used, in her time, quite
sporty language. Once she had had something to do with the races, and
had worn a derby. And yet....
"Well," he mused, "after all it's the same Marjory."
"You think so?" She was amused.
"Yes, the same old Marjory. I wonder if there ever was a time when you
weren't 'advanced.'"
"You call _me_ advanced? My dear fellow, I must refer you--"
"I know, I know," he protested. "You forget I've come to know them all.
Perhaps," he added slyly, "I'm growing just a little advanced myself!"
"You?"
"Can you imagine?"
"Oh, well--"
"In my old age--fancy that!"
"True, I'd forgotten the poet."
"Well," he admitted, "one lives and learns."
"We all do that, you know."
"Oh, yes."
"Well, but do you mean we've nothing left to quarrel about? Has it
really come to _such_ a pass?"
"I do." He spoke almost solemnly. It was a little like the "I do" of
the marriage rite.
"Barrett! Good heavens! What's the world coming to?"
"I don't know," he replied na;vely. "I only know there are no grounds
left. I've capitulated, you see, at every point."
"Tut, tut!"
"_Every point!_" he insisted. No compromise would do. It might amaze
her, might snatch the ground from under her feet; he would admit, at
last, no compromise.
She grew whimsical, then a new earnestness creeping into her voice:
"You know," she said, "I've come to suspect some of this talk of being
'advanced.' I mean"--for she felt his enquiring gaze--"I've come at
length to suspect that in just going ahead.... Barrett, for heaven's
sake help me out!" For once in her life--and it was surely a portentous
symptom--Miss Whitcom was groping.
"Well," she went on at last, still speaking earnestly, if fumblingly,
"I'm not sure I _can_ express at all what I feel. It's what I've been
coming to feel more and more--no doubt a gradual development up out of
the cocksure attitude of one's--Barrett, I've begun using a dreadful
and ruthless word--one's immaturity ...!" She tossed her head. "It
doesn't mean I don't still believe in all the fine, big movements. You
know"--her voice for a moment grew almost tender--"I always looked upon
myself as one of the first of the 'new' women. I wasn't going at things
blindly. I was always following an ideal, Barrett, even when the
things I did seemed most wild and inexplicable. But as I look back I
seem to have been following strange roads in an effort to reach it! How
strange! And now--yes, only fancy, as you say: in one's old age!--I'm
afraid I see in a way that 'progress' can be overdone. That is, I've
come to see that progress is something you can't _force_. Yet there
have to be pioneers in the world, don't there, Barrett? People who are
reckless, and pay the price, and aren't afraid of going too far....
Yes, I realize that, as I've always realized it. But oh, Barrett,
Barrett--I'm afraid I'm getting to be very, very selfish. I've been a
pioneer so long, and after all I don't quite want to be a pioneer to
the very end of my days. I--I somehow feel I want to stop being one
before--oh, Barrett, before it's quite too _late_ ...!"
"I think," said O'Donnell slowly, his voice just a little shaken, "if
the time has come for plain speaking like this, you'd better let me
hold your hand. Do you mind?"
"Listen to him!" she said, in one of her richest tones of banter.
All the same, she let him have it.
While these important events were proceeding, Louise, who had not gone
to find Mr. Barry, after all, but who had returned to her room instead,
slept a little. She was unused to such early rising, and she had been
through a great deal since dawn.
She slept, and had a dream. She dreamed that she and Leslie were to be
married. She seemed to be very much excited, and to be surrounded by a
crowd of indefinite persons, some of them friends she now possessed,
and some of them friends she had known in her early girlhood. And all
the while she was happily arguing: "I know I'm a little bit older,
but we love each other so much that just a mere couple of years don't
count."
Waking with a start to problems more sinister than merely that
involving a conventional disagreement of ages, Louise perceived that
it had drawn to the golden midst of afternoon. Lynndal was waiting for
her. As the curious, almost hypnotic quality of the dream wore off,
she responded to another flash of new purpose. The dream still haunted
and oppressed her; at first it had made her sad; but as it faded into
a renewed appreciation of that humiliating conversation beside the
driftwood shed, a mood of rebellion came upon her.
She tossed her head haughtily: Leslie should be allowed to make no
further difference to her. She would thrust him entirely out of her
life. He ought never really to have entered it. No, she shouldn't
have given herself to Leslie, even temporarily. It had produced an
unpleasant situation, and afforded him an opportunity now to fling
all her kindness back in her face. He had, indeed, treated her
shamefully--not at all as he had treated her earlier in the day. At
dawn.... But she murmured angrily: "This is the return one gets for
trying to be nice to a man!"
The new mood inclined her, in a subtle way, toward Lynndal--as abruptly
as it had hardened her heart against Leslie. The emotion of the moment
illuminated the former in an almost rosy manner. She began thinking of
Lynndal warmly and romantically--as she had thought of him during those
long months when they were far apart. Her attitude again became the
attitude she had maintained throughout the period of their increasingly
affectionate correspondence. And the sense of his nearness seemed no
longer to distract or terrify her. Excitement stirred in her breast.
It leapt to her eyes and trembled upon her lips. She had never loved
Lynndal so almost tempestuously. Strong emotion of this sort always
had a beautifying effect upon Miss Needham. Her face glowed as she
encouraged the rekindling passion. She fanned the flame of her love
for Lynndal, and at the same time a soft sense of steadfastness and
assurance snuffed out the dismal quandary which had wracked and
tortured her soul from the moment she saw him up on the deck of the
steamer. Some mad whim, she argued feverishly, had filled her with a
panic of indecision and dread; but that was gone now. She whipped the
purging passion into new and fantastic fervour. Her laugh had a touch
of wildness in it. Even Richard had never moved her like this!
Suddenly, a little chill seized her heart. What if already it were too
late? What if, by her coldness and aloofness, she had already created
in Lynndal's heart a havoc which could not be rescinded? Was it not
wholly conceivable that she had killed his love for her? Had she not
shown herself perverse, cruel, and irredeemably fickle? Perhaps now the
tables would be turned, and he would draw away from her, even as she
had shrunk from him. The thought had a maddening influence: she felt
momentarily faint and distracted. Then a new energy of determination
blazed in her eyes. It must _not_ be too late. She _must_ win him back,
however far her wretched conduct may have driven him.
Louise dressed with elaborate care, giving heed to every eloquent
detail of her toilette. She tore off the brooch Richard had given her
and flung it into her jewel box with a gesture of gay scorn. No more
toying and trifling! She was ready now to give herself completely and
for all time--the more ready because of that uneasy little tremor of
doubt lest she had killed his love. Yes, it was a wonderful moment--a
moment so packed with the frenzy of giving that there remained no
other thought at all in her mind. She lived for the moment alone. She
made herself radiant for Lynndal, the emotion which swayed her growing
more and more riotous. She surrendered herself to it. He was waiting
for her. And she went down to him hopefully, wistfully, yet withal
triumphantly.
"Which way?" asked Lynndal as they descended the short bluff and
reached the hard, surf-packed shore.
"I don't care," she laughed up at him. "Shall we go this way?"
It didn't matter to Barry. All ways were equal to him, since he was
really and truly in love and spent no great amount of attention upon
the scenery. He looked at her adoringly. His quiet eyes were dazzled.
They strolled along close beside the little waves. It was rather a
picture. She was charmingly gowned, and carried a small plum parasol.
"Let me take your coat, dear," he suggested.
She gave him the light silk wrap, and he carried it on his arm, crooked
almost pathetically for the purpose.
"I don't wonder you like it up here," he said, looking off over the
sparkling water. "If we had this in the centre of the desert...."
"I suppose it would make a difference." All at once she pictured the
desert. She pictured herself living in the midst of the desert with
Lynndal.
Then the dry-farming expert went on to explain, at some length, just
what would happen were this sea to be transported to the parched heart
of Arizona. The words began falling a little dully on her ears. She was
vaguely troubled. But she could not tell just why it should be so.
There was a silence. They walked along slowly side by side. A wave of
happiness stole upon the man; his hand, encountering hers, closed over
it tenderly.
She caught her breath a little. "Lynndal," she cautioned, "you
mustn't...."
But he clung to her hand. He had come so far! And again she seemed to
hear those terrible words booming in her ears: "You are mine, all mine!"
Slowly his arm crept round her waist. There was nothing overwhelming
about the action: Barry was not an overwhelming man, and had not
an overwhelming way with him. His was, rather, a kind of gentle,
furtive passion, which displayed itself in a very slight trembling, an
occasional queer huskiness of voice.
All at once Louise grew alarmed. It seemed to her that a terrible and
inevitable moment had come. She wasn't entirely prepared. _She must
have more time ...!_
"Please take your arm away, Lynndal," she said tensely.
"But why, dear?"
"Please! The cottagers...."
"But Louise, dear, there isn't a cottage in sight." They had, indeed,
proceeded by this time well around the Point. "There's no one to see,
and besides...."
She glanced up shyly. His face was kind. His eyes were pleading and
full of quiet reassurance. Did he suspect a little the turmoil within
her? There was no reason why his arm shouldn't be about her; yet her
mind went on groping. It was like being in a thick wood. Could she give
herself to him entirely? Could she give herself to _anyone_ entirely?
"Louise, I love you," he murmured, bending down so that his lips were
close to her cheek.
She trembled. But she told herself that he had come to her out of the
desert; that he was her lover; and that she must give herself to him
without any more restraint. Why had she led him on and on if she didn't
intend to give herself fully at last?
"Louise, dearest.... Louise!"
"Yes, Lynndal...."
"I love you so much!"
The old panic surged again, but she fought it back. "For ever and
ever--nobody but me...." Yet there were so many others.... Chaos again
enveloped the girl.
"Won't you kiss me?"
His arms were adoringly about her. His lips came close to hers. It was
time, now, to give herself. She raised her lips.
They kissed.
But a great cry was in her heart: "I _can't_!" It was almost as though
he had heard it, for he let her slip way; and she stood there before
him, her head lowered, her hands desperately covering her face.
Louise thought blindly of Richard--what their first kiss had been like
...! And then she remembered how, afterward, she had longed for death.
With what completeness the situation now was reversed! Now she was
loved, and it was she who would break her lover's heart. Yet still the
same swift longing for death....
They walked on slowly. Barry's head was lowered. Finally he asked
thickly: "Don't you love me, then?"
She bent her head lower and could not answer. The fault was her own,
and he must suffer for it. Yet stealthy colour crept back into her
cheeks; her mood grew muddy and subtly defiant. Was not he making _her_
suffer?
It wasn't, she blindly felt, so much that she didn't love him, as that,
strangely and tragically, he must be all to her--and she could not face
it.
How strange it was! How unpremeditated and utterly tragic! In his
pocket huddling against the little box with its precious prisoner, was
a letter in which the amplest and most ardent affection was expressed.
It was a letter which expressed an earnest desire for his coming--so
eager. Barry was bewildered. What did such lightning-swift changes of
heart signify? Had she only _imagined_ herself in love? What was this
that had come to him? Had he come out of the desert for nothing after
all? Was all the promise of new life sheer illusion?
They walked on a little way and then turned slowly back.
PART THREE
THE LIGHT
1
The Rev. Needham awoke from his siesta wonderfully refreshed. These
benign afternoon snoozes had a peculiar and sometimes quite poignant
effect. The minister dimly felt it must have something to do with
psychology. For he always awoke feeling so spiritual, so calm and
strong. Today, of course, there was particularly traceable cause: he
had gone to sleep, one must remember, in a miraculously resolute, yes,
a truly masterful, mood. Did we call it Nietzschean? Well, perhaps it
really was almost that. At any rate, waking was delicious. There was
a largeness, a breadth about life which made one want to square one's
shoulders, step out proudly. Before the dresser mirror, in the act
of resuming collar and tie, the Rev. Needham actually did square his
shoulders a little. He even threw out his chest somewhat. Oh, it is
sweet to be master of one's own destiny!
Out on the porch he found his wife, rocking there all by herself and
looking a little vacantly off at the shrubs and trees.
"Ah, Anna," he said; then perched himself in a nonchalant, really an
almost rakish manner, on the railing, throwing one leg over the other,
and folding his arms. He yawned a little audibly, concluding that
function with a kind of masterful, contented smacking of the lips--even
whistled a few bars of a gay secular tune.
"Did you sleep well, Alf?" Anna Needham spoke calmly, rocked calmly.
She still eyed the shrubs and trees in a spirit of almost hypnotized
calm.
"I had a magnificent nap," he assured her.
Anna rocked more slowly. "Alf," she hesitated.
"Yes, Anna?"
"Alf, I wonder if I can be getting old ...?"
"Old, Anna?" He was really quite shocked at the suggestion.
"Yes--I don't know. Sometimes...."
"Nonsense!"
"I don't know ..." she continued dreamily.
"But why should you ever think such a thing?"
"Well, lately there've been times when I've felt so kind of still. I
don't know, but I thought--I thought it might be...."
"Why, Anna ...!" he cried in vaguely frightened tones.
"I don't know, Alf." Her manner retained its essential dreaminess.
"Sometimes when I sit alone rocking, I feel so kind of still...."
The minister laughed, then, with even an attempt at something like
boisterousness; but it was plain something of his earlier flamboyancy
had vanished. Abruptly, right in the heyday of his most glorious mood,
the shortness of life struck him with uncanny force. Life's shortness,
and, though he indignantly repudiated the insinuation, its relative
futility, after all. Where had one come from in the beginning; just
what was it one was up to now; and where was it one would go when
the breath of life ceased flowing? Oh, what a piece of work is man!
These were the secret inner workings. With a thrill of genuine horror
the minister found himself asking what he knew, as a fact, after all
these years of preaching it, about the immortality of the soul. It was
terrible, _terrible_! Oh, that he should be afflicted with such doubts!
And not ten minutes ago the Rev. Needham had squared his shoulders and
flashed so grand a defiance at his own reflection....
Curiously enough, this sudden unpleasant sense of renewed insecurity
was augmented, at the moment when it was most acute, by the rippling
laughter of his approaching sister-in-law. Miss Whitcom and her friend
were returning from their t;te-;-t;te in the bower. The laugh, whatever
it might mean to the minister, signified that the lady was not, so
easily, to be carried off her feet, and that, however thrillingly she
might talk about not being a pioneer any longer, no mere travelling man
was to capture her without at least a concluding scramble.
Barrett O'Donnell knew quite well what the laugh signified. But it
didn't, for all that, very greatly disturb him. Lord, he'd waited
twenty years: he could wait twenty more, if necessary. There is
not that hot impetuosity in the affection of souls matured which
characterizes youth; not that fever, that restless, exquisite rush of
heady devotion. Still, there is perhaps something in being quite sure
your love isn't misplaced. Yes, in a way, to be sure may be even better
than to possess.
The return of Miss Whitcom and Mr. O'Donnell from one direction fell
simultaneously with the return of Louise and Lynndal Barry from
another. The porch became a very lively place, all at once, where a
few moments before it had been so quiet, with only the minister's wife
there, rocking.... Louise was greatly relieved that it should be so.
To have returned to a silent and deserted house after what had passed
between herself and Lynndal on the beach must have proved next to
unbearable. As it was, the frantic difficulty of the situation would be
lightened, if only temporarily.
Marjory pounced at once upon the westerner, turning from her ancient
suitor with a careless alacrity which seemed saying: "After all, I am
free, quite superbly free!" And O'Donnell muttered an "Ah!" scarce
audibly; and what he meant by it was this: "I know you'll come back
to me. You always have and you always will. We are not _quite_ free,
either of us, in one sense of the word." One glorious, indomitable
sense of the word.
Marjory wanted to know more about the dam in Arizona, and especially
she wanted to get at the other side of this tragic love affair--this
bit of high tragedy in humble setting. In art, she thought, tragedy
has a way of being generally treated nobly and loftily; but in life,
somehow, it often seems almost absurd. Yes, first it was the dam. But
she did not really care two straws about the dam. She had got beyond
all such things as dams in her pilgrimage.
The Rev. Needham opened up a conversation about the Point with
O'Donnell. But he kept eyeing his daughter, who leaned against the
railing of the porch, her hands clasped before her. Alfred, despite his
calling, was a wretched reader of souls. The look in one's eyes or the
line of one's lips meant next to nothing, definitely--if only because
these things might mean so bafflingly _much_.... If you actually shed
tears, then he would be reasonably sure you must be unhappy. Hearty
laughter signified, of course, a state of hilarity. However, the Rev.
Needham's spirit, with Milton's, took, really, no middle course. There
lay an almost blank chasm between tears and laughter--although, alas,
the fact of its being a chasm did not make it any less conducive to
prickles in one's suspended heels.
"There's only one thing," O'Donnell was observing, "--only one thing
I've got against this place."
"What's that?" asked the minister.
"There are so many signs!"
It took the Rev. Needham just a moment to comprehend what was meant.
"You mean the Assembly notices?"
"I suppose that's what they are. If you'll pardon my saying so, it
seems sometimes as though there's a sign on every tree. One says you
mustn't peel the birch bark, and the next one announces a lecture on
such and such a day."
"I'm afraid they have multiplied the last few seasons," admitted
the minister. "We don't seem to notice--so used to them, I suppose.
There are picnickers, you know--come from other parts--and we have
to look out for the natural beauty or it will be all spoiled. As for
the lecture announcements," he concluded, "the--the church, you know,
has to keep pace, nowadays. Yes, it--it has to advertise a little!"
He spoke almost glibly, and sighed; but quite brightly, indeed almost
chirpily.
Miss Whitcom caught the confession. And she hopped down at once off Mr.
Barry's fine Arizona dam--which diverted water into a huge reservoir,
thus keeping off the Needham wolf--and administered what might vulgarly
be termed a knock-out.
"I should say it does have to advertise! Oh, yes, the church must
_indeed_ hustle to keep pace! Even so, I hear the attendance is
dropping off."
"Marjory?" began her brother-in-law with unhappy and interrogative
vehemence. The low bow, alas, would do no good at all here. This woman
was unspeakable. She struck him as almost a monster! Not that this was
manifest, of course; it was merely the way she struck his invisible
soul.
"Oh, gracious, Alfred, I don't mean _your_ attendance. I'm not
referring to your particular church. I speak as a sociologist--a
biologist!" She laughed. "Yes, I always try to consider these things in
the broadest sense. And I don't see why you should look so shocked, for
after all I'm only agreeing with you. Don't you see I am? The church
_does_ have to advertise. Has to stir up public controversies for the
sake of getting itself discussed--always biologically speaking, Alfred.
It has to get itself recognized as a social force. That's the word: a
social force! It must be a little sensational even, sometimes, to match
the growing sensationalism of life. What more natural? An atmosphere
of spry colloquialism. Yes, the modern church must compete. Why _not_
introduce the movies into Sunday School--?"
"We haven't yet done any of these things, Marjory," declared the Rev.
Needham earnestly, a trifle coolly. He seemed really to insist upon
receiving all her shafts personally.
"Some churches do though," volunteered O'Donnell--and laughed a little
nervously.
Mrs. Needham had been following the conversation, glancing first at
one speaker then at another; now she spoke: "Marjory, how do you ever
manage to keep track of everything that's going on here in America?"
It was not the first time since her arrival amongst them that Anna's
sister had amazed her with a grasp of home affairs--often with flashes
of vision which had been closed to her before.
"Oh," replied Marjory with pleasant lightness, "but you see such
demonstrations as these exude an influence--it's a little like the
wireless. One feels their thrill all around the earth."
"Besides," interposed O'Donnell quite seriously, "you know Tahulamaji's
awfully advanced."
"Is it?" asked Mrs. Needham guilelessly, turning towards him.
"Oh, tremendously," he assured her. "As I make it out Queen Tess was
one of the most advanced women of her time. I tell you, things move in
Tahulamaji!"
Mrs. Needham had not hitherto felt, as she indefinitely put it to
herself, very well acquainted with this travelling man friend of her
sister's. Suddenly she found herself holding the centre of the stage
with him. It amounted to a little thrill.
"I suppose, after all, things aren't so different there--conditions,
should I say?"
"Well," hedged O'Donnell, beginning to perceive that he had entered
somewhat dangerous waters. He glanced at Miss Whitcom, who merely
shrugged her shoulders, which seemed equivalent to an assurance that,
having involved himself unnecessarily in her behalf, he might just
flounder along, so far as she was concerned, until kingdom come.
"Maybe," suggested the minister's wife with a dart of genuine
brilliance, "the churches do all those things in Tahulamaji!" Would it
not seem to explain Marjory's being so uncannily well informed?
The Rev. Needham inwardly fidgeted. He felt he ought to be in the
forefront of the discussion, defending his cloth. But suddenly he
seemed, within, sadly and impotently, to have nothing to say. There
were times when he felt he didn't possess a single honest prejudice any
more, or hold one single irrefragable opinion. What a fortunate thing
for the soul is its kind bulwark of flesh!
Anna's suggestion at length stirred Miss Whitcom, however. "Oh, no,"
she said quietly, "they don't."
"Still," O'Donnell objected, "you told me the Queen was incorrigibly
modern, and you said she adored the movies."
"Oh, we're modern," replied Marjory with an ungodly smirk. "Yes, we're
modern enough in Tahulamaji. I may say we're quite in the van of
civilization. We're so modern that we _haven't_ any churches. So how
_could_ we advertise?"
"No churches, Marjory?" queried her brother-in-law. "But you seem to
forget--"
"Well, at least nothing you'd call a church, I'm sure, Alfred--outside
of what the foreigners have imported, that is. A few little rude native
altars.... That's all. You know, 'when two or three are gathered
together'.... It's--well, I've sometimes felt it's the _spirit_
that counts in Tahulamaji, when it comes to matters of religion.
Everything's very, very simple. We really haven't time to do it the
grand way, even if we knew how."
They hadn't time for church in Tahulamaji! The awful question which now
wracked the soul of the minister was: If they hadn't time for church,
what _had_ they time for? A dimly terrifying curiosity assailed him.
The Rev. Needham had read vague things about the people of the tropics.
And a flush overspread his lined, worried face.
Yes, Marjory was an odd sheep, if not a black one. Perhaps she could
hardly be called a _black_ one, though there were certainly times
when the Rev. Needham saw her as through smoked glasses. Anyway, an
odd sheep she certainly was. She did not seem to belong in the herd
at all--let alone the family! The rest were all quiet, sensible,
orthodox. But about everything Marjory said or did there was something
unorthodox, something wickedly theatrical. What a past she had had!
Just think of it! Just think, for instance, of spending five whole
years of one's life in a place like Tahulamaji! Well, the ways of
God were unsearchable. So, it seemed, were the ways of His satanic
opponent. The reason she seemed different from themselves must be,
fundamentally, that she had had a past. But why had she had a past?
Yes, the minister's speculations always must terminate with the
knottiest question raised and unanswered. It seemed a part of his
destiny.
And meanwhile, there stood Louise and Lynndal, not six feet apart, yet
never meeting each other's look; never speaking. How unpremeditated and
tragic! He had come all the way from Arizona, and now they had nothing
to say to each other. Louise, leaning wretchedly against the railing,
seemed, just now, able to realize nothing clearly. The episode on the
beach had confused her. She felt herself baffled.
As for Barry's state of mind, that, also, was considerably cloudy. It
had happened--the inconceivable, the impossible--and it was now over.
Yet was it really over? In just a swift moment like this had _all_ his
dreams been broken? It seemed incredible: he could not believe it. He
tried to reassure himself, endeavoured to keep hope alight. Something
wise and still, deep in his heart, counseled patience. It might be she
was only confused: it seemed strange to her, having suddenly a reality
like this in place of her dreams. Louise was a dreamer--he knew that.
And what might be going on inside her wayward little head, who could
guess? So far Barry had only distinguished himself as a wizard of the
burning sands. He was a man who could make deserts bloom like the rose.
Yet who could say but perhaps he knew a little, too, about the subtler
bloom of a woman's heart? Patience, he argued within himself. It might
be she was only puzzled, and that she still loved him in spite of the
thing that had happened. He would be patient a little while. If it
turned out at last that there was no hope, why, then he would go back
to the desert again. That was all.
2
It was nearly five o'clock when Leslie and Hilda emerged from the woods
with their supply of roasting sticks. They had gone about their task
in the most leisurely fashion, mutually animated by a curious half
complacent acceptance of each other's presence. Merely being together
had become such a complete yet informal delight that neither of them
stopped to analyse it at all. And yet, if their hands chanced to brush,
or, as happened once when a bee threatened, she laid her hand a little
clutchingly on his shoulder, the emotion quickened. They hadn't much
to say to each other, although a good deal of talk, such as it was,
passed between them. Neither could remember afterward anything that was
said. And all they had intrinsically to show for their afternoon was an
armful of roasting sticks.
"Where shall we keep them until it's time?" asked Hilda, as they
tramped through the sand and up to the screened porch.
He gazed dreamily off to sea.
"Les?" she repeated, quaintly drawling.
"Hm?"
"What shall we do with the sticks? Leave them here? Or do you want to
take them down where the fire's going to be?"
"Oh," he said at last, "I don't care." And he let himself down slowly
on to the steps. "I feel so dreamy I can hardly move. Did you ever feel
like that, Hilda?"
"Yes, many times," she replied, sitting down one step above him and
clasping her knees. Her canvas hat was tossed aside, and the hair on
her forehead was a little damp. There ensued a long, drowsy silence. At
length she said: "I hope we cut enough, Les."
He was still gazing off across the sea, which the declining sun was
making flash in a splendid and quite dazzling way. It was merely a
warm, hypnotic stare, and he really saw nothing at all; yet he was
faintly conscious of things--above all, he was conscious of a feeling
of simple young happiness.
"Les?"
"Hm?"
"You do think we cut enough, don't you?"
"Sure, I guess so."
"It would be so funny," she laughed, "if there didn't happen to be
enough to go round and some had to just sit and watch the others eat!"
"Most of them do that anyway, don't they?" he murmured. "I mean they
sit there and watch you work like a slave, and then swallow everything
that's poked in front of their mouths. I guess all roasts are alike."
"Well, anyhow, _we_ won't feed any of the lazybones tonight, Les. We'll
eat our own! I'll feed you, and you feed me. Will you?"
He glanced up at her and smiled. Then he slid down a step and lay back,
resting his head against the step on which she sat, a little to one
side.
"You look quite different upside down," he volunteered.
"How, Les?"
"Oh--I don't know. Your eyes look so funny!"
"Yours do, too!"
He thrust a sun-browned arm over his eyes and crossed his legs. It was
she who now gazed off over the blazing waves. Not exactly a classic
tableau. You would never mistake them for Romeo and Juliet. And yet
our little ubiquitous friend Eros viewed the picture not without a
smouldering, an incipient satisfaction.
Louise came out of the living room door on to the porch. She could see
Hilda's head and shoulders, and she crossed over to the screen door at
the top of the flight. Hilda looked round quickly.
"Oh, hello, Lou!"
Louise nodded, and made motions of salutation with her lips. There was
no sound, however. She cleared her throat--tried to smile.
Leslie drew himself hurriedly into a more dignified posture. "Hello,"
he smiled, rising a trifle uneasily.
"Just see how many we got!" cried Hilda, jumping up and gathering the
roasting sticks in her arms.
Louise stood there looking down through the screen door. "You certainly
got enough!" she exclaimed, a little shrilly--the result of her trying
so desperately to be perfectly natural.
"Well," Hilda went on, "you see I kept finding little trees so straight
we simply couldn't pass them by. And Leslie just kept cutting. See how
sharp they are?"
Leslie, as though availing himself of the invitation (regardless of its
not having been exactly addressed to him) placed a finger on one of the
smoothly whittled points and withdrew it with a small, oddly juvenile
howl of mock distress. The wounded finger went into his mouth. Leslie
was certainly _not_ at his ease.
Suddenly Hilda ran up close to her sister and asked, in a very low
voice: "Have you been crying?"
Louise's heart jumped. "Why, no," she replied.
"It must be the sun in your eyes," said Hilda.
"Yes, it must be." And she turned away from them and sat in the same
chair her mother had occupied when she had demanded of Alfred if he
thought she might be growing old. Louise rocked slowly, just as her
mother had rocked. Yet her thoughts rushed madly to and fro. There was
a battle of ghosts in her heart.
Aunt Marjie came out breezily, accompanied by Mr. O'Donnell, who was
about to take his departure. The parent Needhams stood side by side in
the cottage doorway, hospitably bowing, but seeming to realize, with a
kind of fineness, that they should come no further, and that the very
last rites must be performed by the lady for whose sake he had been
asked.
Mr. O'Donnell extended a hand of farewell to Louise, who rose.
"Oh, are you going?" she asked.
"Yes--simply have to. They'll decide at the Elmbrook that I'm lost,
strayed, or stolen and will have a search party out!"
"Good-bye, Mr. O'Donnell," said Hilda, prettily holding out her hand.
She was deliciously unspoiled.
He held her hand a moment, looked from her over to Leslie, then at the
bunch of sharpened sticks. And he brazenly winked at Miss Whitcom, who,
glancing discreetly in the direction of her elder niece, remarked that
there was likely to be a gorgeous sunset.
O'Donnell and Leslie shook hands. "See you again tonight?" asked the
boy politely.
"Yes, indeed!" Mrs. Needham called out. "He's coming over to the roast."
"You'll have a devil--I mean, it's very dark in the woods," said
Leslie. He was quite horrified at the slip, and hurried on, expressing
quick generosity by way of gaining cover--a generosity more generous,
no doubt, than he had at first contemplated. "You'd better let me come
and light you through."
O'Donnell patted the lad's shoulder in a very kindly manner, just as he
might pat an obliging bellhop in one of the hotels on his route, who
volunteered to get him up for a five o'clock train.
"Oh, no," he said. "Don't you bother."
"No bother at all," replied Leslie, suddenly seeming to grow quite
enthusiastic over the idea of lighting Mr. O'Donnell through from
Crystalia. His eye encountered Hilda's. It was finally agreed, and
O'Donnell departed, in the very best sort of spirits.
When he had disappeared, the Rev. and Mrs. Needham strolled out on to
the porch. The Rev. Needham was slowly gaining back his ruffled poise.
He and O'Donnell had been smoking some more of the good cigars, and
Marjory hadn't ventured anything so very revolutionary since the remark
about not having time for church. He slipped an arm, just a tiny bit
stiffly, about his wife's waist. He didn't exactly cuddle her; still,
thus fortified, he looked across at his sister-in-law with an inner
mild defiance.
"Well, I must run along," said Leslie, drawing a deep and very
leisurely breath.
"Do you _have_ to go so soon?" Hilda stepped down toward him.
He nodded, thrust his hands into his pockets, drew them out again, was
painfully conscious that Louise was sitting up there on the porch.
Hilda came down another step and stood close to him. "It's awfully
early, Les." Then a brilliant idea sent her unexpectedly scurrying up
the steps and on to the porch. She whispered something in her mother's
ear, upon which Mrs. Needham looked somewhat startled and shook her
head. She and Eliza had planned so carefully. Leslie seemed almost like
one of the family; but what if there shouldn't be enough?
Hilda tossed it off gallantly. She tripped back down the steps and said
she would go with Leslie as far as the choke-cherry tree.
"Good-bye," said Leslie politely to the porch.
"Good-bye, Leslie," said the Rev. and Mrs. Needham in unison.
And it never occurred to them as odd that their younger should be
accompanying Leslie as far as the choke-cherry tree. Oh, the incredible
blindness of parents! Oh, what strangers one's children really are,
after all! And yet, how could it be otherwise? Quaint souls--perhaps
choke-cherry tree their elder had been wont to go....
Louise called out: "'Bye, Les." She was rocking more vigorously. Her
hands were clasped behind her head and her cheeks were flushed. There
was a curious wild look in her eyes. Aunt Marjie thought her actually
handsome just then.
At the choke-cherry tree Leslie and Hilda indulged in a very desultory
leave-taking. Yet their talk was utterly devoid of anything either
poetic or romantic.
"You'll get your shoe all full of sand, Les." He was scuffing it
mechanically back and forth in the dust of the roadway.
"I don't care."
"I hate to have sand in my shoes."
But he laughed: "I don't know what it is _not_ to."
Then he patted the bark of the choke-cherry tree and ran his palm up
and down it, as though he were a lumberman and knew all about trees.
And he gazed up at the tiny ripening berries. Suddenly he stopped
patting the trunk and turned, leaning his back against it. He stood
there, confused a little, tapping first one heel and then the other
against a projecting root; for his exploring hand, as it chanced, had
encountered a certain recently carved set of initials within a rude
heart. All that was so long ago!
"What shall we do about the sticks?" asked Hilda. "Shall we have papa
carry them down to the fire?"
"No, I'll carry them down. I'll come over and get them."
"But you're going to light Mr. O'Donnell through from Crystalia," she
reminded him--then waited breathlessly.
He didn't disappoint her. "_Please_ come along--won't you?"
"You mean when you go to light him?"
"Yes."
"You really want me to?"
He nodded.
A man was approaching them. He came round a bend in the road. It was
Lynndal Barry.
"I've been for a little stroll," he explained. "These woods are
certainly wonderful!"
"Yes, we like them," replied Hilda, in a very polite but at the same
time very friendly tone. She was just a tiny bit afraid of the man who
had come so far to marry her sister--not because Mr. Barry was the kind
of man who spreads about him an aura of awe, but because Hilda knew
there was something the matter. Yes, something seemed to be wrong. But
Hilda did not guess _how_ wrong.
"Were you going back to the cottage?" she asked.
"Yes, I thought I would."
"Then I'll walk back with you, if you don't mind."
"Well, good-bye," said Leslie.
"Good-bye, Les. You'll come for me?"
"Yes."
"What time?"
"Whenever you say."
"Right after dinner?"
"All right."
"So long."
"So long, Hilda."
He departed, scuffing foolishly and happily in the sand.
"We were cutting sticks for the roast," explained Hilda as she walked
back beside Lynndal toward Beachcrest.
"It will be jolly," he remarked. "You know, I've never been to one of
these beach roasts in my life."
"You never have?"
"No. And I've looked forward to the beach roasts ever since--well, ever
since I knew I was going to be up here this summer."
"You see, you came just in time!"
"Yes, didn't I?"
"The mid-summer Assembly Roast is the biggest roast of all."
"I'm in luck," he murmured.
And so they chatted together until Beachcrest was reached.
3
On the porch, where Miss Whitcom had been regaling her relations
with, it must be admitted, a rather sensational account of how the
inhabitants of Tahulamaji had formerly been cannibals, the absence of
Lynndal Barry was noticed.
"Where is he?" asked the Rev. Needham, with a quick inward flash of
nervousness.
Louise was assailed by a great longing to come out, wildly and fully,
with some superb flow of words which should ease the burden of her
heart. It seemed urgent, in fact, that she explain his absence. Aunt
Marjie braced herself for an expected scene. But just then the missing
man put in an appearance. Hilda preceded him up the steps. Instead
of crying out that her heart was breaking, Louise felt suddenly an
insane desire to laugh. Hilda was leading Lynndal back, as though to
compensate for leading Leslie off!
"Well, well," began the Rev. Needham, with all the hospitable bluffness
he could summon. "We were talking about you!"
"--Wondering where you were," continued Mrs. Needham.
"--Fearing you might have embarked for the wicked city of Beulah,"
Marjory gaily carried it on, "where young men are not safe, and the
song of the siren never dies away!"
The Rev. Needham looked startled, then rather grim, then again just
vaguely uneasy. Barry explained that he had been strolling in the woods.
"No danger of getting lost, at any rate," declared Miss Whitcom, "since
the church advertises so efficiently!"
There promised to be a rather pained silence; but Mrs. Needham rose,
smoothed down the front of her skirt, and announced that she must go
and dress for dinner.
"Ah, yes," lamented her sister cheerfully, "one must dress, even in the
wilderness."
"Oh, we don't really make anything of it, Marjie. Only it sort of rests
you--to make a change."
"Dress! Isn't it absurd? Yet how we dote on it! In this respect
we aren't, after all, civilized to any dangerous degree. Why, in
Tahulamaji--"
"Marjie, there isn't a bit of use of your changing. You look lovely."
"Thanks," replied her sister. "Still, one must."
"We all do just as we please up here in the woods, you know."
"Ah, but the men, the men," whispered Miss Whitcom with delicious
vulgarity behind her hand. "And after all, we must have some regard for
the conventions." Her tone was just a little pointed.
"Yes, Marjie, I suppose, in a way...." Anna admitted.
"And then--there's the church," Miss Whitcom persisted, almost brutally
whimsical.
"The church?"
"Since it tries so very hard to keep abreast of the times--one might
say, _; la mode_!"
The sisters went into the cottage. Louise rose.
"I must dress too," she announced, crossing quickly to the door.
"I like that gown ever so much," said Lynndal.
She turned and cast him a rueful glance. "Thank you. But I really must
change." She smiled faintly. The high colour had faded, and her eyes
had lost their look of splendid wildness.
"Wait for me!" cried Hilda, making a tomboy dive for the door, and
capturing her sister's waist, hanging on her affectionately as they
went in together.
"At any rate, we don't have to dress," laughed the Rev. Needham quite
jovially.
"You're sure? I'd begun to get rather scared. You see I didn't bring
out anything...."
The minister laughed again. "No, the men up here are more sensible."
"What did Miss Whitcom mean," asked Barry after a short pause, "when
she spoke the way she did about the church?"
"The church, Barry?"
"Something about it being _; la mode_."
"Oh, I--the fact is, Barry, I don't quite know myself. I'm sure she
didn't mean anything in particular. That is, you see Marjory has a kind
of playful way of speaking.... You have to know her well to understand
her."
"She seems like a very jolly sort."
"Yes, yes. She's ever so jolly. Sometimes I feel.... Well, of course,
every one has their times of being jollier than at other times, don't
they?" There seemed something here appealing, a little pathetic,
even--as though Alfred Needham, if he only _could_ one day get his
heels down, would turn out really very jolly himself.
The conversation was growing thin, a little vague. It was a relief to
have the talk drift into other and more concrete channels.
"Well," remarked Barry, "just before I left for the East we got the
final engineering report on the new San Pedro reservoir. It looks
pretty good to me."
"Something to open up a whole new area?"
"Yes, that's it. By building another dam--" And he explained the rather
technical proposition.
"A good deal like the Santa Cruz, isn't it?" asked the minister.
"Yes, a good deal like that. You can be pretty sure of the water near
the source, but of course the farther downstream you go, the less
dependable the flow is. Sometimes there will be floods, and then again
sometimes the bed will go entirely dry."
"Yes, yes," said the Rev. Needham meditatively, and almost as though in
these fluxes of the Arizona rivers he recognized a subtle resemblance
to life's fluxes which kept him ever hopping. "Let's see," he
continued, "do I own anything just there, in the San Pedro valley?"
"You certainly do," replied Barry, and he drew a map out of his
pocket, spread it on his knee, hitched his chair a little closer, and
traced the Needham holdings with his pencil. "This strip in Cochise
County--that little triangular patch there where Pinal and Pima
join.... It ought to add quite a bit to your income, when the deal is
really swung."
The Rev. Needham sighed appreciatively. "I wouldn't have any of these
opportunities if it weren't for you being right there on the spot to
look out for things."
"Oh, I do what I can," said Barry quietly. He folded up the map and put
it away. "You see I'm very much interested in Arizona--new settlers
coming all the time--new homes under way...." His eyes were dimly
wistful. "Pretty soon we'll he getting another man in Congress...."
"Barry, do you suppose later on you'll be getting into politics?"
"Politics?" He laughed it away a little, yet at the same time clung
to it, too. "Oh--you never can tell." As a matter of fact, as Louise
could have told her father, the spring of a secret ambition had been
touched. "Just now there's too much to do, developing--opening up the
country.... There are plans in the air for another big power plant near
Yuma. By the way, I can get you some shares there, if you like. As for
politics...."
The Rev. Needham folded his arms with quiet pride. This was a man after
his very heart. Perhaps he would be a Representative at Washington some
day. Perhaps he would be Governor some day. And in the meantime, here
he was, coming right into the family! No, the Rev. Needham could not
have been any prouder of a son.
Upstairs all the ladies were in the midst of their toilettes. "O,
world! O, life! O, time!"
"Are you girls putting on low neck?" demanded Miss Whitcom in her
shrill way.
"Lou is," replied Hilda. "She always dresses when there's anything to
go to, but I never do." She sighed. "Just think, Aunt Marjie, I haven't
got a single low neck!"
"Cheer up, little one!" the aunt called over the three-quarters
partition. "Your time's coming. I don't see--achu!--what you do about
sunburn up here! _Achu!_"
She was deluging her neck and face with powder. Fortunately they were
only going to a roast, and there wouldn't be much light, especially
after the fire began to die down. Then she started slightly and
frowned. Why on earth should one be concerned about a little sunburn?
And yet--there was a thrill in the question, too. Miss Whitcom admitted
she never would have been so concerned in the old days. These were new
days. After all, Barrett seemed the only reality there was left. Yet
there had seemed so many realities to begin with.
"Louise, what's the matter?" whispered Hilda, as she slipped a fresh
jumper over her head and began tying its lace.
"What makes you think there's anything the matter?" asked her sister
thickly.
"I know there is! You don't act like yourself at all. Is it--is there
something about you and Mr. Barry?"
Louise's throat ached. She did not start, nor did she flush and cry
out: "How did you guess?" Her throat ached; it ached cruelly.
"Lou, dear--_tell_ me what's the matter!" implored Hilda, throwing
her arms around her sister, and laying her cheek against the other's
shoulder a moment.
"I--I can't," faltered Louise.
"Yes, you can. I knew there was something!"
Louise shook her head wretchedly.
"Doesn't he seem the same?"
"Don't, Hilda!" She wriggled nervously.
"Louise!"
"I--I...." She pushed herself free of an embrace which possessed, just
now, no comfort. "Please don't say anything more. You mustn't."
"Well, I won't, Lou dear. Only it makes me feel bad to see you look
this way. And I know there's _something_ the matter."
"No, there isn't," replied Louise woodenly.
Hilda discovered, far in an unfrequented corner of her own little
special chest of drawers which had been moved in out of Aunt Marjie's
way, a fine new scarf. It was a scarf she had never worn before.
Indeed, she had forgotten all about it. Now she remembered it had been
put away carefully, with the understanding that it was to be brought
out for some very special occasion. Her heart told her the golden hour
had come. Her heart was so full of news that it began singing.
"We're going to light Mr. O'Donnell through to the roast!"
"Who?" asked Louise. She spoke impulsively, as all the Needhams were
in the habit of speaking. Had she thought a moment she would not have
asked.
Hilda told her, with a thrill of most abundant happiness. She hugged
her happiness; she did not know what it cost her sister.
Louise braced herself. The evening had to be got through somehow. But
after tonight--then what? Her father would be expecting Lynndal to
come to him to talk it over. And how terrible! Would it, perhaps--her
thoughts were flying helter-skelter--would it perhaps make some fatal
difference in the Western business? Would Lynndal continue to look
after the interests, just as before? Could any one reasonably expect
the relations all around to remain _quite_ what they had been?
Remorse stole dully over her. She had come between her father and his
friend. Could he forgive her? And could her father? Why had she done
such a thing? But _was_ it final? All those letters.... At length he
was here ... had come so far ... and what had she done? In the morning
she had gone to meet her lover. It had seemed fine and romantic. She
had told Leslie they must be only friends now. It had all appeared
quite easy and rather delightful. Then Lynndal had come, and ... and
then what? What was it that had happened? It had seemed to her that she
could not give herself up....
If only she could have a sudden change of heart! One read of such
things, now and then. If only she could rush joyously down to him,
where he sat talking with her father, and tell him she _did_ love him!
But after all, she could only go on dressing, miserably dressing.
"Do I look all right, Lou?" asked Hilda, much as Louise had put the
same question to her at dawn.
Her sister told the plain truth in a syllable. Yes. She certainly did.
Of course a jumper, even with so fine a new sash under its collar,
wasn't quite as nice as low neck. But Hilda was undeniably charming.
Louise felt a sudden elemental pang of jealousy.
Hilda's heart was in a great flutter. She liked Leslie ever so well.
She didn't know any other boy she liked so well as Leslie. Have a care,
little Hilda. Ah, have a care! Your age protects you. But later, when
you have substituted loving for liking, things will be different. When
Louise was your age she let Harold Gates kiss her a great many times.
She let him put his arm around her, and when he had to leave her on
account of the girl he had brought along with him to the picnic, she
did not care--very much. Or at least she did not care very _long_.
But now see, Hilda. Your sister has become a woman. She has learned
to love, and play quite fearlessly with love. But love is a terrible
thing, and your sister is not very wise.
Have a care, Hilda! As you value what is precious and fine in
life--beware! Oh, Hilda, beware, when the heart has matured, that you
do not reap a whirlwind of ghosts....
4
At dinner Miss Whitcom was treated to an entrancing account of the
Assembly Roast, viewed as an institution.
"Of course," explained the Rev. Needham, "in the largest sense it's a
religious function--a kind of general get-together, before the lecture
season opens." It seemed a now more cautious way of reiterating that
the church must advertise.
"But you see," contributed Mrs. Needham, "it was started by the
Goodmans. He's a clergyman from Cleveland."
"It's their anniversary," added Hilda.
Thus, piecemeal, the momentous facts came out.
"Anniversary?"
"Yes, Aunt Marjie."
"Let's see--how many is it this year?" asked Mrs. Needham turning to
her husband.
"Twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth, I think," he replied.
"Oh, Alf, do you think the Goodmans have been married that long?"
"You know," declared Miss Whitcom, "all this is interesting but
terribly mysterious. Thanks, Anna, I've had the pickles. I'm mystified
by these Goodmans from Cleveland. So I understand the Midsummer Roast
is in the nature of an anniversary party also?"
"Well, yes," replied Anna Needham. "It was started, I guess, more than
twenty years ago, even before we began coming up here. There were only
a few families at first. Alf, were the Goodmans the first to begin
coming up?"
"Unless it was Blakes," he suggested.
"But didn't the Blakes begin coming because the Goodmans did, Alf?"
"Well, maybe so. Marjory, can't I help you to a little more of the
lamb?"
"No, no," protested his sister-in-law. "I'm doing famously."
"Alf, Marjie will have some more potatoes, I'm sure."
"No. Doing _fam_ously. Never mind my plate, but do let's get it
straight about the Goodmans. Thanks, Hilda, I will have another
biscuit. It all sounds terribly romantic!"
"Yes, it is," Hilda boldly assured her. "They always kiss right before
everybody on their anniversary. And in the morning--"
"Hilda!" cautioned her father, rather sternly.
The girl endeavoured to conceal her confusion by addressing herself
very elaborately to the spreading of a biscuit.
"Oh, now, Alfred," remonstrated his sister-in-law, "you're worse than
a war censor! Since it's quite apparent the whole Point knows about
the kissing--Anna, _may_ I trouble you for another glass of water?--why
shouldn't I be admitted to so very large a secret? There's surely room
for one more, and you may pledge me to profound secrecy if you like.
I'm dying to know what it is they do in the morning!"
Hilda was gaining back her nerve. "They run away and have breakfast
together at the hotel! That's what they do, Aunt Marjie!"
"Oh, how charming!"
"Yes, Aunt Marjie, they've done it every year since they were married!"
"They have? Well, now, I call that pure romance! How coy! How it must
carry them back! I think I'd really like to know the Goodmans. There
isn't such a great deal of pure romance available nowadays. People are
too self-conscious."
"You'll meet them tonight," was the hope Mrs. Needham held out. And
then, while her husband began carving fresh slices of lamb, and since
the subject of the Midsummer Roast seemed about exhausted, Anna went
chattily on: "Marjie, I must say I like Mr. O'Donnell real well."
"Speaking of pure romance?" her sister sparklingly interpolated. "Yes,"
she continued, "Barrett's a good chap. Used to be a bit egregious, you
know, in the old days. But he's mellowed wonderfully. I--I'll let you
in on a tremendous secret," she added, with mock breathlessness, and
addressing herself to Alfred behind her hand. "If he should happen to
ask me again--I'm only saying _if_, you understand...." She finished
eloquently in pantomime.
The Rev. Needham dropped his fork, but quickly recovered it and went on
eating. He had just told himself that no matter what new monstrosity
his sister-in-law might enunciate, he would magnificently let it
pass. He would not appear to notice it. He was a clergyman. There was
a certain dignity to be preserved in spite of everything. But good
heavens, she had said it behind her hand!
"Oh-h-h!" said Hilda. She giggled.
"Barrett _is_ an old peach," continued Miss Whitcom quite brazenly.
"He's stood by me through everything!"
The Rev. Needham nearly dropped his fork again. That awful word.
Everything! And she could be so damnably cool about it! Was he narrow
or old-fashioned to feel the way he did? Yet would not feeling any
other way be simply debauching oneself? Ah, if, instead of his changing
his own point of view, she might somehow drop off into a deep, painless
slumber.... And never wake....
"Well, then," said Anna, who had kept perfectly her head, and was also
rather thrilled, "I hope he will, Marjie."
Marjory looked dreamily off through the open window. A few birches
caught the evening light mistily, and were dyed a delicate pink all
along their slim white trunks. Would he? Ah, of course! And yet....
Well--hm?... If not, why.... She mentally tossed her head. But what she
told herself was not quite so haughty: "In that case I could hardly
blame anybody but myself...."
By this time it might be said that the edge, at least, of hunger was
taken off. All had eaten quite heartily, except Louise. But even
Louise, though she dimly felt this was not as it should be, had found
it possible to do at least a little nibbling. Of course it would be out
of the question to expect her to eat like the rest. It was another case
of Richard. Probably she would not eat just like the rest for a good
while to come. Still, she would manage to keep going. One always did
that in real life.
The Rev. Needham, however, was at length coming definitely to notice
things. Louise, some more of the lamb? No? Surely more of the creamed
carrots? But you're so fond of them! Ah, yes. There were sharp and
anxious glances in the direction of this baffling elder daughter. She
wasn't eating right. And when any of the Needhams didn't eat right, you
could be very sure there was something wrong with the heart.
But now, anxious paternal orbs, let your troubled gaze shift to another
plate--the next plate nearer your own. Oh, man of God, what cheer?
Barry, another slice? Ah, but never you mind that--no one stops at a
second helping here! No more potatoes, either? Tz, tz! Oh, reverend
sir, what a load to fetch back to your expectant flock in the fall!
Oh, if anything should happen now--now, just as life was becoming so
kind! Oh, now--and those prickles in the heels occurring with less and
less frequency, even despite the upsetting presence of Marjory! To have
something go wrong--at his time of life.... To find the world running
all to sixes and sevens....
Oh, it must be a wild and overwhelming fancy, nothing more than that!
Barry (he rambled wildly in his mind) for mercy's sake more carrots?
And aloud: "Just a few more, Barry?" _Good!_ No, no, one hasn't heaped
them up. One only wants to be sure. And if there is no absolute
assurance in this hard world, one so beset can be forgiven for taking
refuge behind appearances--even behind appearances of one's own
manufacture, in an extremity like this! Yes, by hook or by crook one
must contrive to keep the best foot foremost!
Barry, as a matter of fact, was doing pretty well and feeling pretty
wretched. He had got through the afternoon coolly enough on a kind of
momentum generated partly by the decision that he had simply been a
fool to dream such dreams, and partly by that hopeful, wise, desperate
little word of counsel, that fine word, patience. But here, all at
once, was a pang of reaction. All the old, warm, wistful love came
rushing back. The ancient dreams of home and wife and children returned
to taunt and torture him. Only last night, on the deck of the steamer,
with the moon so soft on the sea--ah, only last night.... How he had
let himself go! How he had even pictured things: the fireplace here,
perhaps the piano there.... And how his cigar had gone out, and he
hadn't noticed. But now he was sitting beside her at her father's
table, and he did not know whether she loved him or not. And in his
pocket was a box with a ring inside it--a ring for which there might
never be any use.
Mrs. Needham noticed, too. But Louise had already explained that she
had a headache. The mother did not suspect that there was anything
necessarily portentous in the air, and her heart beat placidly enough.
Her life seemed settling and settling. The current grew more and more
tranquil. She had times of feeling so kind of still.
Later the talk centred in Arizona.
Barry glanced at Louise, and found her, as it happened, gazing sadly,
quizzically, and with some abstraction at him. He looked away at once,
trembling a little; and he carried on the theme:
"Of course Arizona strikes people in different ways. Some find the
flatness and the sand depressing."
"Is it sand all over?" asked Hilda.
"Oh, dear no!" replied Miss Whitcom, with a vehemence which served
to remind them all that she had been a pioneer in the cactus candy
business and knew what she was talking about.
Even the Rev. Needham contributed something to his younger daughter's
enlightenment. "There are lots of trees along the irrigation ditches.
Barry, what kind of trees are they? I never can seem to remember."
"Cottonwood, mostly," he answered. "The foliage is a very delicate
green."
"Oh, it must be lovely!" sighed Hilda, who romantically saw herself
walking along beside Leslie beneath an everlasting row of the most
beautiful trees anybody could possibly imagine. "How I should love to
go out there!"
"Yes," mused Miss Whitcom, "and we mustn't forget the broad fields of
alfalfa--so dark--the very greenest green in all the world."
Barry nodded slowly. "Yes, the river valleys are always quite fertile.
Then comes the great Arizona desert, with cacti and mesquite and
greenwood and sage. And beyond all that"--he had begun a little
monotonously, but came at length to speak in a rather rapt way--"beyond
all that, the dim blue of the distance, the lonely peaks of the
mountains...."
"Grand old mountains!" added Miss Whitcom.
And it was odd, and no doubt sentimental, but the mountains all at once
reminded her somehow of O'Donnell. Yes, O'Donnell was something like a
mountain. Her heart quickened a little.
"Oh, I know I should just love it!" cried Hilda. And then she asked, in
her almost breathless manner: "Are there any birds in Arizona?"
"Birds?" repeated Barry, a little abstractedly. "Birds? Oh, yes--all
through the irrigated districts. There are orchards, you know. It's
a fine sight to see them in full bloom. And the trees are alive
with birds--meadow larks and mocking birds, mostly. And there are
blackbirds, too. They sing in a wonderful chorus. And almost everywhere
you'll hear the little Mexican doves."
"Oh, I remember the doves!" cried Louise suddenly, forgetting her
wretchedness.
He looked at her wistfully and solemnly. "Some people say the doves
have the sweetest song of all. There's a very plaintive note--you
remember?"
"Yes," she whispered thickly, avoiding his eyes.
The breath of Fate seemed faintly to animate her having remembered the
little Mexican doves. "I think," he said, "they have the saddest song
of any of the birds."
5
A remark, dreadful yet tantalizing in the vistas it opened up, was
overheard by the Rev. Needham as he was coming out on to the screened
porch. It was a remark which set on foot an increasingly turbulent
desire to know, unequivocally and without expurgation, just what had
been the nature of his sister-in-law's life on the distracting island
of Tahulamaji.
Mrs. Needham had retired to the kitchen for a final fling with Eliza
about breakfast, leaving the minister alone in the living room with his
daughter. Miss Whitcom and Mr. Barry had passed out on to the porch,
and Louise had dropped down in a nice shadowy corner with a book--just
as young ladies naturally and invariably do after dinner, when the
light is beginning to fail, and their lover is waiting for them outside.
The Rev. Needham, whose suspicions had already been rather alarmingly
roused, now felt sure not all was well. Why should Louise behave like
this if all were well? And even Barry--Barry wasn't, of course, one of
those romantic fellows who would always be sighing and rolling their
eyes; but there were subtler manifestations.... They had gone walking
together in the afternoon--thank God! There was that much to cling to.
Yes, thank heaven they had done that much anyway!
But the Rev. Needham was so full of perplexity that he hardly knew what
to do next. He told himself, in desperation, that everything _must_, in
reality, be all right--rather much as his daughter had assured herself
on the train that all must work out for the best: her best. He knew,
as a matter of fact, that this was not quite honest persuasion. But it
helped. Oh, it was a very present help. To tell the truth, it sufficed
to carry him quickly out of his daughter's presence. In his heart, the
minister knew that the issue ought to be faced at once. Yes, he ought
to call Louise over on to his knee, just as in the old days, before any
of the unhappy love troubles began, and ask her to tell him what had
gone wrong. But he didn't call her over. Instead he began humming in a
perfectly unconcerned manner, and strolled outside.
It was just as he reached the door that the Rev. Needham overheard the
all but blood-curdling remark.
"You must realize," Miss Whitcom was saying to his daughter's fianc;,
"that it's much too hot there to wear any clothes!"
It being patently too late to turn back, the clergyman came on; somehow
reached a chair. He sat down quickly and began rocking. He rocked
helplessly, yet withal in a faintly ominous way--perhaps, deeper
still, with a movement of guilty curiosity: for after all he was but
human, poor man.
The sun had just dipped, and the sky and the sea were alive with the
fire of this august departure. A wraith-like distribution of cloud
still received direct beams and glowed like a bit of magic dream-stuff;
but the lower world had to rest content now with reflected glory--a
sheen of softening brightness which would grow steadily thicker and
thicker, like quandary in the clergyman's breast, till at length the
light was all gone and darkness had settled across the sea and the
sand. Ah, peaceful eventide! Good-bye, sweet day! But the heart of
the minister was all full of horrid little quick jerks and a settling
mugginess.
The conversation his appearance had served to interrupt did not
continue as it had evidently begun. Yet even at its worst it appeared
to have constituted merely a laughing digression from the major theme,
which had to do with the perfectly proper topic of dry-farming. No
one would think of calling the topic of dry-farming improper. But the
tenor of the talk which succeeded the minister's arrival in their midst
did not, for all its unimpeachable correctness, serve to diminish the
poignancy of that awful phrase: too hot to wear any clothes!
"Mr. Barry," she explained to her brother-in-law, "has been telling me
a lot of interesting things about the sorghums."
Alfred Needham cleared his throat--just as he always did, for
instance, before ascending the pulpit on Sunday--and nodded. But he was
not thinking about the sorghums--just as sometimes, it is to be feared,
in the very act of coming out of the vestry, and with the eyes of the
congregation upon him, he failed to keep his mind entirely on the
sermon he was about to deliver.
"It seems they've made enormous strides since my day," she went on.
"Mr. Barry, how many varieties did you say are now possible?"
"Well," he replied solemnly, his eyes large with helpless unhappiness,
"the sorghums now include common or sweet sorghum, milo maize, Kaffir
corn--and of course broom corn. These have become standard crops, and
we're introducing them more and more into the southern district." He
rocked a trifle self-consciously. All three rocked a moment in silence.
"There's considerably less rainfall down there," commented the Rev.
Needham.
The statement had been carefully equipped with earmarks of the
interrogative, so that, should it happen to prove incorrect, refutation
would take the form of a simple answer to an ingenuous and perfectly
natural question. The Rev. Needham found it urgent to keep his
inflections always slightly interrogative. There was even a sly,
sneaking hint of the useful question mark throughout the reverend
man's theology. Ghastly as the thing must sound spoken right out, it
is really doubtful whether the Rev. Needham would be caught altogether
napping were the entire Bible suddenly to be proved spurious! Of
course when Barry admitted that there _was_ less rainfall in the
southern part, then the minister rocked with subtly renewed purpose,
slapping the arms of his chair exactly as an acknowledged authority on
rainfall might be expected to do. But of course it was all ever so much
subtler than this makes it appear. It was infinitely more delicate than
any mere I-told-you-so attitude.
"You know," continued Barry, who felt an unpleasant thickness in his
throat, "the sorghums have to be able to withstand a great deal of
drought. They roll up their leaves and seem to sleep for months at a
time; and when the rain comes again they revive quickly and make rapid
strides."
Inside the cottage sat Louise. She was huddled miserably over a
book. She was not reading the book, though it chanced to be a very
absorbing historical novel. It is hard to conceive of a young lady's
not reading such a work with avidity and even breathlessness, under
the circumstances. But to be perfectly accurate, Louise hadn't even
opened the historical novel. It simply lay in her lap, and she was
huddled over it. Her eyes were dry. She was utterly miserable. And just
outside, in the full, fresh sweetness of diminishing dayshine, sat
the man who had come all this way to put a ring on her finger. He was
sitting out there in the romantic richness of the tinted evening, and
he was talking about the sorghums!
Oh, a wise plant is the sorghum. When there is a drought it rolls up
its leaves and waits till it is time for the refreshment of another
rain. The sorghum knows well how to plan and bide its time. The
_sorghum_ would not give itself too easily....
Out on the rustic bench which her dear father had so laboriously
constructed sat Hilda. She was listening for steps in the sand. She
would know whose steps they were when they drew close. It was growing
quite dusky underneath the trees. The stars would soon be appearing.
There had been a slight breeze all the afternoon, but it had died away;
and on the beach the tiny waves were whispering that it had passed that
way and was now still. The trees stood very quiet, but occasionally a
squirrel would whisk by overhead. The squirrels, however, were turning
in for the night now, and soon there would be no stir left save only
the night stir of the woods. Far off sounded at intervals the shouts of
young children--children younger than Hilda, and unfettered as yet by
any sweet obligation of sitting very breathless, listening for steps in
the sand.
"How lovely everything is!" thought Hilda.
When she saw Leslie she ran out to meet him--no mooning pretense at not
having heard.
"Oh, Les, why don't you light it?"
He carried a Japanese lantern and was swinging it about in a very
reckless way.
"Shall I?" he asked. "Now?"
"Oh, yes! It isn't quite dark yet, but it will be so much fun!"
"The candle's pretty short, Hilda. Do you think it will last?"
"Let me see." They bent their heads eagerly over the paper lantern.
"It isn't very long, is it Les? I guess we'd better put in a new one.
There are lots of them at the cottage."
And before he could protest she was flying off.
On the screened porch she found the entire household assembled. Mrs.
Needham had completed her session with Eliza and was now pleasantly
rocking. Ah, there was a rhythm in her rocking--especially of late
years. It was the sort of rhythm the vers librists have so entirely
broken away from. It was a rocking which rarely went slower or faster.
Perhaps it was the Homeric hexameter. Or it was stately blank verse,
with maybe the quaint rhyming couplets of Crabbe and Cowper. No one
could ever think of mistaking it for Edgar Lee Masters!
Louise had come out also. Hilda, as she flew by and on into the
cottage, saw her sister sitting beside Lynndal Barry on a rocking
settee. There was, as a matter of fact, not a single stationary piece
of furniture on the porch. To Anna Needham, rocking was pleasant and
even actually profitable. To her husband--well, to the Rev. Needham it
seemed a kind of muscular necessity. And the girls had always been used
to it. So all the chairs rocked.
Aunt Marjie sighed briefly as Hilda ran by. Boy-crazy. Well, life
wasn't made for waiting and working alone. Somehow, this sea air--these
lustrous, still nights--were stealing away her resistance. Yes,
O'Donnell was a kind of mountain. And yet, curiously enough, he was
only a travelling man, too, just as he had always been. Yes, he
travelled for Babbit & Babbit. But she would go home to him at last.
She would put her head on his shoulder, if he would let her, just like
a silly young thing. Suddenly she saw her life as a restless confusion
of ambitions and beginnings. Oh, to have spent it so! To have waited as
long as this! To have been so afraid of giving herself too easily....
Hilda came running out again. She clutched a new candle in her hand.
Her eyes were quite wonderful.
"Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Needham, appearing a little
bewildered by this cyclonic going and coming.
"He's out there; we're going to start now!"
There was just sufficient coherence to bring Miss Whitcom to her feet.
Always impulsive, she stepped to the screen door and thence down on to
the path.
"Hilda!"
"Yes, Aunt Marjie?"
"You're going to light O'Donnell through to the Point?"
"Yes, Aunt Marjie."
"Well, be sure you don't lose yourselves!" No, even Marjory, with her
amazing retrospect of brass, did not quite dare to say: "Don't lose
_him_!" And yet, so far as her heart was concerned, it really amounted
to that.
The last thing Hilda heard, as she sped off, was the patient voice of
Lynndal Barry. The minister had asked him another question about the
sorghums.
"Yes," Barry was saying, "there are about as many varieties of Kaffir
corn and milo maize as of the saccharine sorghums. Only a few have
been tested in the South: red Kaffir corn, black hulled white Kaffir,
standard milo maize, and dwarf milo maize. But we intend--"
Hilda, skipping with happiness, heard no more.
6
The procession through the forest of Betsey was a very romantic
affair. First came Hilda and Leslie, the latter carrying the lighted
Japanese lantern swung over his shoulder. And behind them walked Mr.
O'Donnell, like some great monarch; and he must indeed, just then,
have felt himself at least the king of all travelling men. What would
his colleagues of the grip think if they could see him now? Had any of
them, for all their store of timetables and their samples and routes
and customers, ever marched through so royal a forest, on such a night,
lighted by young love and a gay paper lantern?
Over the hills and through the valleys of Betsey! It was a wonderful
lark. Of course it wouldn't last. Real larks never did. He would go
back to his grim bag of samples, and she would go back to her beloved
Tahulamaji. There would be thousands of miles between them once more,
and life would settle back into the uneventful dog-trot which had
become the established gait. But tonight! Tonight he was parading the
forest of Betsey like a very king, and his way was lighted by a bright
paper lantern which danced at the end of a bough.
"Now," he thought slyly, "if I were a poet...." However, being no poet,
but only a travelling man in the employ of Babbit & Babbit, our friend
simply walked along, like the plain mortal he was; and was content,
if with a sigh, things should be as they were. "Ah, this is fine!" he
would exclaim in his quiet way. And Hilda, for all her heart was so
richly moved, would merely reply: "Yes, we like it."
It had been agreed upon that O'Donnell should be led directly to the
scene of the Assembly Roast instead of being brought all the way round
to Beachcrest first. The Needhams, Miss Whitcom, and Barry were to walk
up the beach, when it was time.
It was at length about as dark as it ever gets in moonlight season. The
moon had not yet risen, but would be coming up soon. The Rev. Needham
suggested that it was time to start.
Miss Whitcom was on her feet at once. There followed quite a little
flurry about wraps. The Rev. Needham and Barry strolled on ahead down
to the beach. They walked slowly, and the ladies were to overtake them.
Both men were smoking cigars, the ministerial supply seeming happily
inexhaustible. If one's faith might be as inexhaustible!
Being a little ill at ease, they talked of obvious things: the
broadness of the beach just here, the firmness of the sand, its
pleasant crunch under the feet.
"We tried to have a board walk down from the cottage," observed the
Rev. Needham, "but every winter the sand drifted all over it and
buried it, so we had to give up the idea." He was wondering nervously
whether Barry would seize this occasion to ask for his daughter's hand.
"You really don't need a walk," replied his guest. "It's an agreeable
change from the city this way."
"Yes--yes, it's a change."
There was a short, awkward pause. Then Barry remarked. "You've got an
ideal location here."
And the minister answered: "Yes, we like it."
They trudged on a little way in silence.
"There certainly are a lot of stars out tonight," commented Barry,
transferring his gaze rather abruptly from the sands to the heavens.
"Um--yes. Yes, there are a great many. And there will be a full moon,
later on."
"Yes, I know. The moon was wonderful last night on the lake. I sat out
on deck a long time."
"You said you had a good trip across, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes--perfectly smooth."
Another silence--an ominous desperate silence.
"Well," quoth the Rev. Needham, turning around and peering back, "I
wonder if they're not coming?"
"I think I see them coming now across the sand," remarked Barry.
"Yes--yes, I believe I do, too," the other agreed.
"That's Louise in the white dress."
"Yes, that's Louise."
It wasn't long before the ladies overtook them. The tension was at once
both relieved and heightened. Anna Needham claimed her husband's arm,
Louise walked beside Barry, and Miss Whitcom walked alone with her
thoughts. However, the groups were not isolated. Yes, there was safety
in numbers. Single encounters began to be desperately unpleasant.
What was the matter? In Anna's day, young folks had been given, she
remembered, to wandering significantly off by themselves on such
rare nights as this. But Louise and Lynndal kept close. Anna was
troubled about this--even whispered about it to her husband as they
walked along. Alfred started and began to talk about something else.
They ought to face this thing. They ought to face it squarely and
with courage. But Alfred couldn't. He told himself they must be only
imagining things.
They passed the lighthouse, so shadowy and gaunt itself, yet with so
beaming an eye! Adjoining the tower was the keeper's residence. There
were lights in some of the rooms. A child was calling. A dog was
sniffing about. He was quite used to resorters, and did not even bark
as the party approached and passed the premises. Louise stooped to
pat the dog's head. Barry said: "Hello, sir!" The dog wagged his tail
slowly, but did not follow them away from the house. He had learned all
life's lessons in puppyhood. He would never stray. What a grand thing,
never to stray!
When they were rounding the final curve of the Point separating them
from the rendezvous, Mrs. Needham cried: "Oh, look--they're lighting it
already!"
The cone-shaped pile was visible, and fire was leaping all about the
base. Flame shot up quickly to the very peak, and thence on up, higher
and higher, toward the stars.
There was quite a crowd assembled about the fire when the people from
Beachcrest arrived. O'Donnell and his delightful escort arrived from
another direction at almost the same moment. Then they all sat around
in the sand, and kept jumping up to introduce and be introduced.
Naturally the Needhams knew everybody on the Point; and it was always
quite a thing to have guests. Here were the Goodmans, smiling hosts to
the entire assembly. Had they not started the thing long ago when their
married life was in its springtime? Ah, the Goodmans! Miss Whitcom
remarked afterward that she felt as though she were shaking hands with
royalty. "It honestly reminded me," she said, "of my first meeting with
Queen Tess!"
In the excitement, of course the roasting sticks had been forgotten,
and of course Hilda insisted upon running all the way back with Leslie
to Beachcrest after them. By the time the sticks were there, the fire
had flared itself into a condition inviting the approach of wienies and
marshmallows. A ring of resorters hovered round the fire with sticks
held hopefully out and faces shielded by an arm. Naturally there were
some mishaps. Some one, by deftly turning and turning, would coax a
marshmallow to the point of the most golden perfection, only to have
it plump dismally down in the sand at last. Then there would be a
chorus of sympathy and disappointment from a group of sitters, each of
whom had perhaps more or less hoped to be favoured with the delicious
smoking confection. Or else it would be a frankfurter that plumped. But
there never was a roast without tragedies.
And everywhere romped the children. Sometimes they would throw
themselves on to their stomachs and begin ambitiously digging in the
sand toward water. Then they would leap and chase each other, or they
would go about thrusting fallen faggots back into the fiery heart of
the blaze.
The provision baskets stood hospitably open. In one might be discovered
a wealth of cool, slippery frankfurters; in another heaps of split and
buttered buns; in still another dill pickles, a pot of mustard. And
of course there were always marshmallows. Some preferred marshmallows
to frankfurters and some preferred frankfurters to marshmallows. But
the majority ate ravenously of both alike, displaying little or no
preference.
The eastern sky grew lighter and lighter. The trees stood out
mysterious and very black against it.
"Look, look!" cried the children.
For the moon was rising now.
The young boys grew restive. Their stomachs were simply closed to the
incursion of any more refreshment; it was a pity, no doubt, but full
was full. The boys began enlarging their area of prowess. There was a
great sand bluff inland a short way, where a rift in the hills cut a
deep, barren gash across the face of the forest. The boys crept far up
the bluff and then leapt out, down and down.
The east was luminous, and the great moon crept higher and higher. When
the boys leapt, their bodies were silhouetted against her bright disc.
They would appear out of the shadow of nothing, poise a moment, leap
into space, disappear.
"Well," observed Barry, in some surprise, "I see you've brought a book
along."
She had really forgotten the book was in her lap, as she sat huddled
over it so miserably in the cottage living room after dinner. When she
had gone out on to the porch afterward she had carried it with her
automatically, and so had brought it all the way to the roast without
thinking. Louise had a grimly whimsical feeling that she couldn't
get away from the book. "If I'd only thrown it into the harbour this
morning!" she thought. But to him she merely replied, a manufactured
gaiety edging the words without lightening them: "Oh, yes--it's a book
I picked up by chance." She handled it carelessly, and her quick glance
shot to a distant group. Leslie was lying stretched out in the sand,
his chin in his hands. He was looking up at Hilda, who appeared to be
recounting something of great interest. Louise felt her face go hot
with jealousy. "I--I don't know much about it," she went on, flapping
the cover of the book listlessly back and forth. "It was recommended to
me by some one who had read it."
"What is the name?" Barry asked politely.
She held the book up in the firelight, flaunting it in the face of the
man who had come so far with his love and his brave little ring. It was
the darkest hour of her pilotless groping.
Leslie's laugh rang. The little group took it up. Then Leslie himself
appeared to become the centre of interest. He began telling a story
which involved a great many gestures. At one stage he even jumped up
and turned a cartwheel, and one of the girls in the crowd exclaimed:
"Can't you just see it?"
"Oh, what shall I do?" thought Louise, fighting her tears.
The moon climbed slowly up the sky, and the young boys, one after
another, with loud shrieks of joy, silhouetted themselves darkly
against her gleaming face.
And then the speech making began.
The Rev. Goodman led off. He had something in the nature of a set
speech for the occasion, which varied surprisingly little from year
to year. It bade the guests welcome, always in the same felicitous
terms, and contained the same allusions to the salubriousness of the
climate, the unmatchable beauty of their Point. Alluding to God's Great
Out-of-Doors, the Rev. Goodman would invariably employ the same grand
gesture.
"And now," he concluded, "I am sure, dear friends, we feel a gratitude
in our hearts to the Father of All Goodness, who has guided our
footsteps," et cetera, et cetera. "And may we all bow our heads with
the Rev. Needham, and join him in prayer."
The Rev. Goodman sat down and the Rev. Needham scrambled to his feet.
He closed his eyes very tight and prayed quite loud--as though defying
Marjory to prevail against him here. It was the next thing to being
right in the pulpit! But he felt her gazing at him in that shrewd way
of hers which seemed saying: "Alfred, have you really got truth in your
heart?" What did Marjory mean by looking at him that way? What right
had she to question his faith and to speak of truth?
It was really a very good prayer, though perhaps just a little more
earnest than the occasion actually required. When the prayer was
finished, he sat down. (Naturally there was no applause.) All the other
speakers would be applauded, but no applause lightened the sitting
down of the Rev. Needham. However, there was a general stir in the
camp, just as there is in church when backs, wearied with the Sabbath
bending, straighten cheerfully for another seven days of sin.
And then the Rev. Goodman, who was the official toastmaster, jumped
up and told a humorous story, which every one had heard before; after
which he turned to the Rev. Blake and asked him to recite _The House By
the Side of the Road_, a very great favourite at the Point. Then the
congregation sang that cheering and beautiful hymn, _Rock of Ages_,
under cover of which most of the boys escaped and ran violent races
up and down the beach. Then the host told another moderately humorous
story, in which he very cleverly incorporated something about the
brother clergyman upon whom he meant to call for the next selection.
This clergyman (who hailed from Dubuque, Iowa), not to be outdone,
scored heavily by telling a humorous story he had learnt off from _The
Ladies' Home Journal_, but which in the telling he so miraculously
manipulated that the Rev. Goodman became its hero! There always was a
vast amount of pleasant playfulness at these Assembly Roasts. Later
on the congregation, sitting, sang that sublimely joyous hymn called
_Jesus, Lover of My Soul_. Since there was no judicious organist at
hand to speed things up, the singing was inclined to sag, and one half
of the camp finished a little bit behind the other. But this was a very
small matter indeed, because, as every one knows, it is the spirit that
counts most, especially at such times. Innumerable other speakers, many
of them purely secular, were called upon. And Mrs. Goodman, who was
quite an elocutionist, read a little story which only the innermost
circle could hear. And Miss Whitcom nudged her friend. They slipped
away and strolled along the beach together.
"I thought I'd rescue you, Barrett," she said.
"But I was immensely enjoying myself," he smilingly protested.
"Yes, I shouldn't wonder--especially the singing! You know, I was so
desperately afraid they might call upon me--just as a curiosity, you
know--and how I should have shocked them!"
"You think so?"
"Why, of course. I never open my mouth without shocking somebody or
other. I don't really set out to do it. I simply don't seem able to
help myself."
"You don't shock me."
"Perhaps not--any more."
"But you know you never really did."
"Never?"
"No. At worst you only opened my eyes."
"Well, Barrett," she said, after a short silence, "I think I've always
rather felt that: that you understood, deep down--that you weren't
quite shockable, in fact."
"Yes," he said meditatively. They strolled along, saying nothing more
for a little time.
At length she asked: "Do you remember the time we swam for the
Allenhurst medal?"
"Of course I do," he nodded.
"You remember how even we were--how we outdistanced all the others?"
He smiled queerly. "They hadn't a chance!"
"Right-O, Barrett. We knew how to stroke in those days! Well," she
continued after a moment, "and you haven't forgotten how I won the
race--and why?"
"A sudden cramp--I thought I was done for!"
"Oh, no, my friend." They were both smiling. "Time has played tricks
with your memory. It wasn't a cramp. Now think, think _hard_. You went
lazy at the finish. And so how could I help pulling in ahead in spite
of myself?"
"Marjory, I--"
"Be not forsworn, my friend. Let's agree that you went lazy at the
finish. After all these years, can't we? It was a singular thing," she
went on, half gravely and half smilingly. "You know I was just at the
age.... Well, it had a most singular effect upon me. Yes, I may say it
altered the whole course of my life, Barrett." She laughed softly.
"Great heavens, Marjory, you don't honestly mean ...!"
"Well, you see, I was one of the first of the 'new' women, and I just
simply rebelled. That was all. You haven't forgotten how I sent the
medal back to you?"
He looked quite serious. "I know," he said softly. "I was stupid about
it for a long time. There didn't seem to be any sense in your sending
it back. In fact...." He hesitated.
"Do let's be perfectly frank!" she invited, with another short laugh.
"Well, I thought it a wilful and childish attitude to take. I didn't
want them to say I'd beaten a woman. We were still living on the fringe
of chivalry, you know, when it was more important to walk on the proper
side of a woman and tip your hat to her at a certain angle than to give
her the vote. I was brought up in a delightful Victorian atmosphere,
where it wasn't considered the thing even to beat a woman at tennis, if
you could decently help it."
"Ah, yes!" cried Marjory. "Just think of it! But gradually you grew
wiser, Barrett--you and the world."
"Yes," he muttered, "I and the world."
"You came to see...."
"Yes, I came at last to see that you can't go lazy at the
finish any more. I told you, and I meant it, that at last I've
capitulated--capitulated at every point."
They walked on a little way in the moonlight, close to the waves. All
at once a bold thrill of tenderness came on him. He drew the woman into
his arms. She responded slowly. Afterward she professed to be not quite
sure whether they had kissed.
But there was a witness. Oh, yes--there was a witness who could
emphatically and joyfully testify that they did kiss, and that they
kissed more than once. The witness, of course, was our ubiquitous
little pagan god, who had abandoned at least a half dozen most
promising cases at the roast to chase for a moment down the beach after
this pair of obdurate mortals who had held off for twenty years.
7
At about ten o'clock the Rev. Needham took out his watch and thought it
was time he and his little party set their faces homeward. Mrs. Needham
had been talking gentle gossip with Mrs. Blake and the wife of the
minister from Dubuque; but she got up at once and obediently took her
husband's arm.
"We go to bed early at Beachcrest," she explained. They went to
bed early in town, for that matter, though the full truth went
uncommunicated.
"Where are the girls?" demanded the Rev. Needham, looking anxiously
round.
Louise came up hurriedly, followed by Barry. "Are you starting home
now, papa?" she asked, with what sounded strangely like eagerness.
"Well, we thought we'd just be starting along. It's--it's not late yet,
you know. We'll just slip on ahead and get the cottage lighted."
"I think we'll go along now too."
"Oh, I wouldn't hurry. The fire's quite good yet."
"Lynndal is tired," she insisted. "He didn't sleep more than a couple
of hours on the boat." And she gave him a very complex glance in which
there was something whisperingly like an element of tenderness.
"Well," capitulated Mrs. Needham.
But Louise was only one daughter. Where was Hilda?
Where indeed? Where _was_ she?
Anxious eyes explored the assembled company. Most of the young people
had mysteriously made off, some this way and some that, but all alike
into the friendly embrace of the darkness which lay so thick beyond the
glow of the fire. Where was Hilda?
"I think I saw her with the lad--is it Leslie?" said Lynndal Barry.
"Oh--Leslie," repeated Mrs. Needham.
"You didn't notice which way they went?" asked the minister.
"No, I'm afraid I didn't."
Then Louise came to the rescue. She pointed miserably, yet also with a
faint, new fact-facing grimness, toward the lake.
"They haven't taken out the _canoe_ ...!" Alfred Needham was horror
struck.
"It's perfectly calm, papa," Louise reminded him dryly.
Then, indeed, they saw the canoe, on the moonlit water. Both Leslie
and Hilda were paddling. But they were not exactly paddling toward the
shore.
"She knows it's not allowed, out like this at all hours of the night!"
cried the minister.
But his wife reassured him in her gentle way. "Alf, I wouldn't worry.
Leslie will look out for her."
Louise lowered her head. Then she moved almost imperceptibly closer to
Lynndal. At length the homeward march was begun. But the Rev. Needham
stopped again suddenly, looking at his wife in a helpless way.
"Anna, _where's your sister_?"
"Dear me!" cried Anna Needham. "We were starting right off without her!"
"Is that Miss Whitcom?" asked Barry.
"Who?"
"Where?"
"The lady just ahead, coming this way."
It was true. There was a lady approaching along the beach. But she was
with a man, and the man....
"Alf!" whispered Anna, gripping her husband's arm.
"Well?"
"Oh--_look_!"
"What is it, Anna?"
She murmured in almost an ecstasy: "Why, he's got his arm right round
her waist!"
The awful intelligence that this was indeed Marjory, and that a man
had his arm around her waist, smote the minister's consciousness with
peculiar and climactic force.
Hilda and Leslie took their own good time about coming in off the lake.
It was so wonderful out there in the moonlight.
"I've had a perfectly grand time!" she told him, her voice thrilling
richly with conviction. She knew she had had a grand time, and whatever
might be the sequel when she faced her parents, the grandness would
never, never diminish.
They ascended the slight sand elevation and reached the steps leading
up to the porch. Moonlight patched and patterned the steps. They did
not go any farther.
Hilda sat down, drawing her knees and chin together, while Leslie
whistled softly.
"Will your father be mad?" he asked.
"Oh, no!" the girl exclaimed, with the full and emphatic authority of
one who is gravely in doubt. "Why?" she added. "It isn't late, is it?"
Leslie pulled out his watch. "N-o-o. Only twenty after eleven."
"Twenty _after_ eleven? Twenty after _eleven_! Oh, my goodness! I
didn't have any idea it was so late. It seemed as though we were only
out there a couple of minutes!"
"It did to me, too," admitted Leslie.
The lateness of the hour, however, appeared to exert no immediate
influence upon either his recognition of the wisdom of departure or
hers of withdrawal to bed. Leslie swung back and forth, clinging to a
slender birch tree which grew quite close to the cottage. Its silver
leaves crashed gently together, as though a breeze were thrusting its
way through.
"I could simply sit out here all night!" Hilda declared.
Leslie admitted he could too. Presently he did sit down. He sat down
beside Hilda, but, as before, one step below her. It was certainly a
lovely night. His head somehow found her knee; then Eros could hardly
contain himself! Hilda ran her fingers very lightly through his hair.
They did not bother to talk much.
At length he asked: "Shall we go out after raspberries tomorrow? Would
you like to?"
"Oh, Les--that would be lots of fun!"
"All right."
"Shall we take a lunch so we won't have to hurry?"
"Good idea."
"What time will you come, Les?"
"What time do you want me?"
"Oh--I don't know."
"Right after breakfast?"
"Oh, yes!" Her answer to this question held no slightest inflection of
doubt.
"What time do you have breakfast?"
"Never later than eight o'clock, and it only takes me a minute to eat!"
Leslie appeared to have forgotten all about going back to the city,
after all....
There was another warm silence. The boy had no idea of starting for his
own cottage, nor had Hilda any idea of going to bed. It didn't, for
some strange reason, occur to either that the parent Needhams might be
waiting up in there, and that the minister, harassed over dim prospects
of ruin perceived in the relationship of his daughter and the man who
handled the Western interests, was attaining an attitude of really
appalling austerity. No, they didn't bother their spoony young heads
about any of these things, until all at once the cottage door opened,
letting out upon them a flood of light from the living room.
"Hello, papa!" cried Hilda, guiltily and very affectionately. She
jumped up.
The Rev. Needham did not say much out on the porch; but when Leslie
had crept off, after hurriedly squeezing the girl's hand, and Hilda
had been marshalled within, the law was laid down with unusual vigour.
Mrs. Needham took it all rather more quietly, primarily because she
did not share, in its full poignancy, her husband's alarm over Louise.
Of course she was concerned. But the poise of climax was beginning to
assert itself. No doubt tomorrow, if a reign of chaos really did set
in, Mrs. Needham would rule over the turmoil like a very judge. She
would become dominant, as when she went to rescue her daughter from the
Potomac. It was perhaps her only complex.
Hilda had just been sent up to bed, rather subdued, but in her heart
immensely radiant, when Marjory arrived home. O'Donnell wanted to hang
around awhile, but she wouldn't let him. No, she positively refused
to linger any longer in the moonlight. She reproved herself a little.
She reproved him a little, too. They had already been quite romantic
enough for one night. And she hustled him off with a lack of ceremony
which went with her years and her temperament. All the same, he managed
to steal a glancing kiss. And Eros--who I forgot to say had remained in
hiding out there--Eros told himself that this was infinitely better for
his purposes than a mere handshake!
When he had gone, she sat down on the steps alone, for a moment. It was
so wonderful--life was--and the night. She watched the moon declining
over a just-troubled sea. Then abruptly she became conscious of voices
in the cottage living room.
"Now, your sister!"
"Well, Alf?"
"_She's still out!_"
"Oh, Marjory knows the way."
"But at such an hour!"
"It's only a quarter to twelve, Alf."
"I know how the Point will be talking tomorrow!"
"Alf, I--"
"Oh--I've nothing to say. No, Anna, I realize she's your sister. But
I must tell you what I think." And he was back once more on the topic
that so turbulently absorbed him. "I think Marjory has been led into
an unfortunate way of living. She's always run so free and never cared
what people thought or said. I really don't know how the Point is going
to take her." And after a moment's pause, during which the minister
could be heard pacing up and down: "Anna, what do we know about the
nature of her life in Tahulamaji? Has she told you anything definitely
about that? No. But she's hinted...." He paced on, and presently added:
"Now here she is, just back; and the very first thing she does is walk
all over with a man's arm round her!"
Miss Whitcom abandoned the wonderful night. When she entered, her
sister smiled and brightened generally. But her brother-in-law seemed
rather taken off his feet.
Marjory wanted to make the minister feel perfectly at home, so she sat
down and began rocking cosily.
"How snug you're fixed here!" she murmured. "How happy you ought to
be, Alfred, in your little nest! Ah, it's fine to be in the bosom of a
family again. You know, I feel somehow as though I'd come back from an
absence of nearly a lifetime. It's a curious feeling, to come back like
this. Like a sort of prodigal, Alfred--just fancy! But I _did_ have
to go away," she pleaded earnestly. "In the beginning, it was quite
necessary! You see there were such a lot of things I wanted to find
out, and I felt from the very first--Anna, you remember how I used to
talk to you about life, and all that?--well, I somehow felt I shouldn't
find out anything just sitting in the front parlour with a family album
spread open on my lap. You see, it wasn't what the others were like
that I wanted to be like, and it wasn't what all the others had done
that I wanted to do in the world. So I broke away. Yes, the prodigal
left, to roam far and wide. Now that we're chatting here all snug, I
may tell you, Alfred, that it's been pretty interesting and pretty
broadening."
"Marjie, dear--"
"Now, Anna, _don't_ let's go up to bed just yet. Not _just_ yet.
It is so cosy down here, and I'm much too excited to sleep. Just a
little while. I--I want to visit with Alfred a little about my life in
Tahulamaji." The atmosphere in the living room grew subtly electric.
The minister sat rigid. But the speaker went on in a cheery, simple
way: "Just think, just think! When you would be sitting down in your
nice house in Ohio, there I was...." She interrupted herself with a
laugh. "It does sound rather dreadful, now doesn't it? You in Ohio
and me.... Fancy my going way off there alone--for you know the
Tahulamajians were once cannibals!--all by myself, and--and _living_!
Gracious, how extraordinary it does sound!"
She rocked with folded arms and peeped at her brother-in-law out of the
wicked corners of her eyes.
"But it's such fun," she went on, a little solemnly, "keeping your
personal life all ship-shape--all ship-shape, Alfred--and yet really
feeling, as you go along, that you're not missing a single thing that's
worth while. No, not a single blessed thing, Alfred. When I went to
Tahulamaji I hadn't an awfully clear notion of what I was going to do
there. You see I thought I'd just have a look-around, as we say. Oh,
Alfred," she chatted, "such a lovely spot! So warm and tropical, with
music at night over the water.... Alfred, how you would love it there!"
He shifted uneasily, and she went on: "What I did, though--what my life
in Tahulamaji really turned out to be--wasn't after all very poetic,
or even essentially tropical, when it comes to that. Yes, I've often
thought I might have chosen a more harmonious vocation. But one must
grasp what one can and be content. The fact is, Alfred, I went into the
drygoods business."
"Drygoods!" cried her sister.
"Yes--just think of that--and after all the really exciting things
I've done in my life! But that's exactly what I did, Anna. Yes,
that's what my life was in Tahulamaji. And you've simply no idea how
the thing took! The natives, you see, were just beginning to wear
clothes--regular clothes, I mean, dear brother. And in a few months I
had an establishment--an _establishment_, I tell you, with departments
and counters and clerks.... It was perfectly beautiful to see them
skipping about, and the little cash boxes running on their tracks
overhead...."
"Marjie, _really_?"
"Yes, indeed. Of course that came just a little later on, after
electricity had been introduced. The arrangement was somewhat crude,
but it worked. Anna, you've no idea the things you can do if you really
set your heart on them! Yes, in time we even had cash boxes overhead,
and there was I, up in the cage where all the cash boxes went to,
making change and keeping the books! That's what makes me laugh so,
when I think of it: you living in your nice house in Ohio, and me up in
the little cage with the cash coming in by trolley!"
"Marjory, Marjory!"
"The third year I had a dressmaker over from San Francisco, and the
business trebled at once. The poor dears had been trying to make their
own clothes, but of course they didn't know much about styles. I had
a circulating library of pattern books, but it was a great day, I
tell you, when the dressmaker arrived! They closed the schools, and a
reception was held. Even the Queen came down the line! I have a manager
now," she concluded, "running the business. I said I simply had to get
off for a rest. Alfred," she soared to her climax, "your sister has
worked herself weary and rich. How much will the new parish house cost?"
The Rev. Needham gasped. This is really not an exaggeration. He
gasped--and it was, this time, no merely inner gasping, either.
Marjory--the new parish house ...!
"Why, Marjory!" he cried, his heart deeply touched. There sounded again
here that former note of appeal or even pathos.
Nevertheless, long afterward, when the fine new parish house was all
finished, and the church could hold its own a little while longer in a
world which was changing so rapidly, a grim spectre stalked between
the minister and her magnificent donation. It was the spectre of the
Bishop whose bed she had seen made up. Did Marjory think _he_ would
sleep on two mattresses, like the Bishop? And buy an upper for his golf
sticks?
Miss Whitcom had risen to bid them good night. The indignant cottage
lamp had begun to sputter and fail. It had never before been kept
burning so late. But she lingered long enough to give them the full
benefit of one of her delightful and so characteristic shafts of
bluntness.
"O'Donnell," she said, "has stood by all these years. Think of it!
Think of its taking so long as that to be sure! Of course it wasn't
that I ever cared two straws for anybody else. O'Donnell's never had
any active competition, except from my overwhelming notions about
being free to work out my life. Well, I've had my freedom, and I've
worked it out. And now--well, he's asked me again--tonight. But what
do you think? I haven't given him a definite answer yet--not _yet_!
I'm going over to the Elmbrook Inn as soon as the sun's up, though. I
guess I'll stand down under his window and call out to him softly. And
when he comes to the window, I'll say: 'Barrett, I've had my fling!'
Alfred--you don't think I could find my way through tonight ...?"
"Marjory! Of course not! Tomorrow, if you must...."
But she chattered gaily and unquenchably on. "I don't know how it's
all going to turn out, I'm sure--about our future, I mean. You see, if
he'll come along to Tahulamaji, I'll sell him a half interest in the
business, and we could let the manager go. But I doubt if he'll do it.
It's so far, and then, you see, he's been with the Babbits so long. I
can fancy one's growing very much attached to the Babbits!"
"And if he doesn't want to go to Tahulamaji?" asked her sister.
"If he doesn't? If he doesn't? Well, then I'll have to follow _his_
lead."
The Rev. Needham had a sudden flash of wholly disorganizing
inspiration. "Marjory, you don't mean Babbit & Babbit?"
But it was just exactly what she did mean! "Yes, in that case I'll
travel for Babbit & Babbit. Must be doing something, I can tell you,
with all these parish houses to be built! And it won't be my first job
on the road, by any manner of means, either!"
Then she kissed her sister affectionately on the mouth and her
brother-in-law affectionately on the cheek. And then the cottage lamp
went out.
8
When Hilda went up to bed she thought Louise already asleep, for she
lay there with her eyes closed. Hilda undressed as stealthily as
possible, and crept in beside her sister. At first she felt so excited
that it seemed to her she must surely lie awake all night. But as a
matter of fact, her eyes drooped at once, and in five minutes she was
asleep.
Then it was that Louise stirred and opened her eyes. They were very
wide and very full of perplexity. She had not been sleeping, but had
feigned sleep because she dreaded the ordeal of talking. She wanted to
be alone, and she wanted to think--all night. A feverish zeal was upon
her.
Barry was abed too. His light had gone out and his room was quite
silent. Was he asleep? She wondered. Or was he, too, lying there in the
dark with eyes wide open, thinking?
The walk back from the roast had been a very silent one. The day had
been crowded with emotion, and during the journey back to Beachcrest
the tenseness had seemed, curiously, to be eased a little. At least
there seemed a tacit understanding that, whatever the further
developments might be, tomorrow must do. Tomorrow, tomorrow! Tonight
all was hazed and half drowned in unshed, groping tears. Even emotion
itself, through sheer, blessed weariness, was subtly obscured. So the
walk had been silent, while somehow both had felt as though the air had
cleared a little. It was easier to breathe.
They had stood together a moment on the porch.
"Goodnight," she said huskily.
"Goodnight, Louise," he returned gravely, giving her hand just a frank,
brief pressure.
She wanted to throw herself at his feet. The impulse to do something
splendid and expiating swept over her almost irresistibly. She wanted
to implore his forgiveness--would that set their lives in order? If
this were to be the end, she felt there ought to be something at least
vaguely stupendous about it.
"Louise, dear--what is it?" he asked, quite tenderly and calmly, yet
with an intensity, too, which seemed like a hot, reproachful breath
against one's very soul.
She swayed a little, almost as though she might be about to fall in a
faint. He touched her arm gently.
The opportunity passed. "It's nothing," she murmured. "I'm tired,
that's all--so tired!" And she did not throw herself at his feet, or do
anything splendid at all.
It was true, she was very tired. She expected to drop at once into a
merciful drugged sleep. It had been like that after the affair with
Richard. But now, lo! she found herself more wide awake, it seemed,
than she had ever been. The weariness seemed all slipping from her,
and her mind grew quite vibrant, as with a slowly dawning purpose.
Ah, tomorrow!
Would the situation be as tragic then? Could it be otherwise than
tragic? But perhaps--perhaps they would see things more clearly....
"Yes," she thought, "I'll go to sleep now and let tomorrow bring what
it must."
Ma;ana, ma;ana!
But this was not to be. She closed her eyes. She tried to turn into a
snug and sleepy position. But she could not woo sleep; and every effort
merely sharpened her senses. Again she found herself lying in the dark
with wide eyes, and went on thinking, thinking.
What was the meaning of this strange commotion? Phantoms--of the
past--presaging phantoms endlessly to follow.... At dawn she had gone
out blithely enough to welcome her lover. He had come. And then.... But
even before his coming, that curious battle had set in. Not his hat or
the twist of his profile.... Phantoms. Phantoms rising up in her heart
like some sinister cloud of retribution. And their single adversary:
"You are mine, all mine...."
Now, in this sombre hour shunned by sleep, the conflict achieved
an effect of climax: she felt it to be that, obscurely yet with a
desperate poignancy--felt that an issue precious in the scheme of her
unfolding destiny faced decision. Legions of spent loves went by in
marshalled battle trim. With an inward cry she watched them as they
passed. Perfume still lingering in the house, though with the guest
departed. Ghosts of a many-vizaged passion, homing at length, for the
fulfilment of a barter Faust-like in its essence.
How lavish she had always been: how free! Shambles, now the glamour
was gone stale. A monstrous cheapening--a heart flung out to-let in
a public street. Yes, how easily and extravagantly she had spent
herself--a profligate spending, for what the moment could return. Here,
at last, was a love that demanded: "You must be mine, all mine--you
must belong to me forever!" Curious, that of them all--of all the
voices that had spoken of love before--it should be Lynndal's which, in
fancy, thus first framed a so momentous contract!
He had been always so modest; in the beginning, to be loved in return
had figured for him as a too, too generous conjecture. Gradually,
however, there had been a return. Their lives had drawn together.
The fact that this love had, from almost the very beginning, been
challenged to the bridging of such distance began to assume for Louise
a new and arresting significance. There had been something in it,
in its very fibre, rising above any mere convenience of contact: a
phenomenon unique, it struck her, in the long and turbulent history
of her heart interests. Those letters.... "That was just it," she
had groped when confronted by Aunt Marjie. Romancing appeared to
have carried her far, how far! Mirage. And yet, behind the mirage a
something deeper lurked. She sensed this now; but all the weary day
she had sensed it also, dimly. Lynndal. Hitherto, the man himself had
barely figured. Yet ever he had been there, too. He had come from
far in the west to put a ring on her finger, and had found her in a
panic of goblin doubt. That fancied voice in the shriek of steam:
"Mine--mine!" Then the kiss which exposed her dilemma. But _behind_
these things--the man; the man himself. And what was this that seemed
for so long, in a fine and utter silence, to have been building?
Sanctuary!...
Her mind, as she lay here in the dark, became indeed a battleground
for this ultimate climax of struggle. An unimagined realm they made of
it. Her heart beat faster and her cheeks grew hot. To-let, in a public
street. "Richard! I have done what he would have done--what he did!
I am no better--no better!" She writhed, and the bitterness did not
leave her--carried her instead to a yet more awful conclusion: "I am no
better than a--than a--" The terrible word scorched across her heart,
leaving a scar behind. Sobs shook her body, and the tears were bitter
tears of hopelessness and regret.
But then, slowly, the bitterness eased a little; and, full of
amazement, she felt a shy presence of freshness stealing mysteriously
in, as from some empire where struggle is no citizen. A strange
and beautiful sense of disentanglement. In the previous moment of
unwithheld relentless purgatory, she had caught the rhythm of that
something--that something behind the mirage! So that, in time, as
she lay relaxed, with tears undried on her face, it came to her that
just one fact remained, of all the febrile facts which, out of a long
inglorious past, had attained the immortality of ghost-hood. Just
one--one "living" fact: Lynndal!
Until today he had but filled a niche--but carried on the pattern of
the many; now, however, the power to stem this ruinous tide revealed
itself as at hand, just waiting to be seized--the courage to give
herself completely, and to achieve a love as steadfast and unchanging
as his had proved to be.
The night wore on. The moon grew sleepy and drooped in the starry
western sky. But Louise did not sleep. There was high drama in her
heart, and she could not sleep till it was all played out.
She began laying plans. What would her life be like if she married
Lynndal? Dry-farming. But later he would run for Congress--perhaps he
would be Governor some day. And in the meantime, love--and there would
perhaps be children.... Security! Peace! An anchorage--something to
steady her and set her wayward heart at rest!
"I'm the kind of girl," she told herself, with a grimness which still
went hand in hand with the orgy of honesty and fearless insight that
had been making these dark hours so memorable, "--the kind that _must_
be married. I--I'm not safe otherwise--not to be trusted."
And then her mood lightened again a little and grew grimly whimsical:
"They say a minister's children are always the worst!"
She must have fallen into a little sleep; for she opened her eyes with
a start and gazed up at a slight abrasion in the shingle roof through
which morning blinked. For a moment she wondered why she had waked
so early. The July birds were all aflutter outside. It was a radiant
summer dawn.
Hilda lay beside her, sound asleep. The house was very still. It was
tomorrow!
Downstairs on the mantelpiece in the cottage living room the Dutch
clock was ticking in its wiry, indignant way. There came a whirr--_so_
like a wheeze of decrepitude. And then it struck: one, two, three,
four....
Very quietly Louise slipped out of bed. She did not want to waken
Hilda, but she had a sudden desire to be out under the sky.
Quickly putting on her clothes, she stole from the cottage. The morning
was very still and fresh. She felt as though she must shout the
gladness that was in her. Tomorrow! Who could possibly have foreseen
that it would be like this?
Louise climbed up out of the valley toward the little rustic
"tea-house" where Leslie had waited for her yesterday at dawn. She
thought she would sit there a long, long time, trying to realize her
great new contrite happiness. She reached the door. A figure stirred.
Lynndal was there. He had risen even before she was awake, for slumber
had not come to him at all. When he saw her face, he could not believe
the new happiness that seemed rushing upon him out of the dark chaos of
their yesterday.
She stretched out her hands to him. She snuggled up against him with a
brief, glad sigh. "I want to be yours, all yours, Lynndal," she said
softly and just a little humorously. "I want to be yours forever and
ever. I don't want to belong to any one but you!"
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MOTH DECIDES: A NOVEL ***