CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Very late that night Bailey Girard arrived at the house, after an

absence of ten days. Dosia had gone to bed unusually early, but she

could not sleep. She could not seem to sleep at all lately—the more

tired she was the more ceaselessly luminous seemed her brain; it was

like trying to sleep in a white glare in which all sorts of trivial

things became unnaturally distinct. So many wakeful nights had she

passed that one seemed to presuppose another, darkness brought, not a

sense of rest, but that dread knowledge that she was going to lie there

staring through all the hours of it. Since that night that the pitcher

had broken, she was ever waiting tensely for the day to bring her

something that it never brought. Lawson’s death—Girard—Billy, who was

getting a little troublesome lately—the dear little brothers far away,

mixed up with tiny household perplexities, kept going through and

through her mind. Her heart was wrung for those two in the house, Justin

and Lois; yet they had each other! Dreams could no longer comfort and

support Dosia; they had had their day. Prayer but wakened her further,

wandering off in desultory thought. If she could only sleep and forget!

To-night she heard Justin’s return from the automobile ride; apparently

the machine had broken down, but the accident seemed only to have added

to the zest. Lois was still dressed and waiting up for him. Then Girard

came—he had seen the light in the window. Dosia could hear the

murmuring of the voices down-stairs—Girard’s sent the blood leaping to

her heart so fast that she pressed her hands against it. For a moment

his face seemed near, his lips almost touched hers—her heart stopped

before it went on again. Why had he come now? It seemed suddenly an

unbearable thing that those others down-stairs should see him and hear

him, and that she could not. Why, oh why, had she gone to bed so early

to-night of all nights? She was ready to cry with the passion of a

disappointment that seemed, not a little thing, but something crushing

and calamitous, a loss for which she never could be repaid. She could

imagine Justin and Lois meeting the kind glances of those gray eyes,

smiling when he did. He was beautiful when he smiled! She was within a

few yards of him, but convention, absurd yet maddening, held her in its

chains. She couldn’t get dressed and break in upon their intimate

conference—or it seemed as if she could not. Besides, he would probably

go very soon. But he did not go! After a while she could lie there no

longer. She crept out upon the landing of the stairs, and sat there

desolately on the top step, “in her long night-gown, white as boughs of

May,” with her little bare feet curled over each other, and her hands

clasping the balustrade against which her cheek was pressed, watching

and waiting for him to go. The ends of her long fair hair fell into

large loose curls where it hung over her shoulder, as she bent to

listen—and to listen—and to listen.

“I want to be there, too—I want to be there, too!” she whispered, with

quivering lips, in her voice the sobbing catch of a very little child.

“I want to be there, too. They’re having it all—without me. And I want

to be there, too. They might have called me to come down, and they

didn’t.” They might have called her! All her passion, all her

philosophy, all her endurance, melted into that one desire. If she had

only known at first that he was going to stay so long, she would have

dressed and gone down. She could hardly bear it a moment longer.

After a while a door on the landing of the second story below opened,

and a little figure crept out—Zaidee. She stood irresolute in the hall,

looking down; then she looked up, and, seeing Dosia, ran to her and

climbed into her lap, resting her little pigtailed head confidingly

against Dosia’s warm young shoulder.

“They woke me up,” she said placidly. “Did they woke you up, too, Cousin

Dosia?”

“Yes,” said Dosia, hugging the child close. Some spell was broken.

Zaidee listened. “Papa and mamma talking down-stairs, oh, so-o-o-o

late!” Zaidee gave a little wriggle of delight; her eyes gleamed

winkingly. “Redge doesn’t know, but I do! Who is that with papa and

mamma, Cousin Dosia? Oh, I know! it’s the lovely man—that’s what Redge

and me calls him. I wish I was down-stairs, don’t you? Cousin Dosia,

don’t you wish you were down-stairs?”

“Yes,” said Dosia again. “Hush! some one is coming; you’ll get sent to

bed again.” This time it was Lois. Her abstracted gaze seemed to take in

the two on the upper stairway as a matter of course.

[Illustration: _Sat desolately on the top step_]

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” she said. “I thought I heard some one talking.”

She rested on the post below, looking up. “I came to see if you’d take

Zaidee in with you for the rest of the night, Dosia. I want to give

Justin’s room to Mr. Girard.”

“Is he going to stay?” asked Dosia.

“Yes. It’s too late for him to disturb the Snows, and he’s been

traveling all day; he’s dreadfully tired. He wanted to sleep on the sofa

down-stairs, but I wouldn’t let him.” She was carrying Zaidee, already

half asleep again, in her arms as she talked, depositing her in Dosia’s

bed, while Dosia followed her.

“Did he sell the island?” asked Dosia.

Lois shook her head. “No. They may really sell it next week, but not

now— The woman who was surely going to buy it—she’s withdrawn; she’s

bought a steam-yacht instead. But Mr. Girard says he has hopes of

another purchaser next week. Only that will be too late to save the

business. Of course he doesn’t know that, and Justin will not tell

him—he says Mr. Girard cannot help. Oh, Dosia, when Justin came in from

that ride he looked so well, and now—” She covered her face with her

hands, before recovering herself. “It’s time you were both asleep.”

“Can’t I help you?” asked Dosia; but Lois only answered indifferently,

“No, it’s not necessary,” and went around making arrangements, while

Dosia, with Zaidee nestling close to her, slept at last.

It was late the next morning before Girard came down. Justin had had

breakfast, and gone; Lois was up-stairs with the children, and Dosia,

who had been tidying up the place, was arranging some flowers in the

vases when he strode in. There was no vestige of that sick-hearted,

imploring maiden of the night before; no desolate frenzy was to be seen

in this trim, neat, capable little figure, clad in blue gingham, that

made her throat very white, her hair very fair. Something in Girard’s

glance seemed to show an instant pleasure that she should be the one to

greet him, but he bent anxiously over the watch he held in his hand.

“Will you tell me what time it is? My watch has stopped.”

“It’s half-past nine,” said Dosia.

“Half-past _nine!_” He looked at her in a sort of quick, horrified

arraignment. “What do you mean?” His eye fell upon the clock, and

conviction seemed to steal upon him against his will. “Heavens and

earth, why wasn’t I called? On this morning of all others, when every

moment’s of importance! I thought I asked particularly to be waked

early.”

“I suppose they thought you were tired and needed the rest,” apologized

Dosia.

“Needed the rest!” His tone was poignant; he looked outraged, but his

anger was entirely impersonal—there was in it even a sort of boyish

appeal to her, as if she must feel it, too.

“You had better sit down and have some breakfast.”

“Oh, _breakfast!_” His gesture deprecated her evident intention. “Please

don’t. Thank you very much, but I don’t want any breakfast; I only want

to get to town.”

“There isn’t any train for twenty-five minutes, so you might as well sit

down and eat,” said Dosia firmly. “Come out to this little table on the

piazza.” She led the way to the screened corner at the end, sweet with

the honeysuckle that swung its long loops in the wind, and faced him

sternly. “Do you take coffee?”

“Please don’t, please don’t cook me anything! I’d hate to trouble you.”

He seemed so distressed that she relented a little.

“A glass of milk and some fruit, then; you’ll _have_ to take that.”

“Very well—if I must. Can’t I get the things myself?”

“No.” She ran away to get them for him, with some new joy singing in her

heart as she went backward and forward, bringing a pitcher of milk, a

glass, a dish of strawberries, some cream, and the sugar, sitting down

herself by the table afterwards as he ate and drank. He gave her a

sudden smile, so surprised and pleased that the color surged in her

cheeks.

“I’m not used to this,” he said simply. “What is that dress you have

on—silk?”

“No, it’s cotton; do you like it?”

“_Very_ much. Oh, please don’t get up—Zaidee wasn’t calling you. I

won’t eat another mouthful unless you stay just where you are—please!”

“Well!” said Dosia, with laughing pleasure.

“Besides, I’ve been wanting to consult you about the Alexanders,” he

went on, leaning across the table toward her, intimately. “It’s so

beautiful to me to see them together that to feel that they’re in

trouble distresses me beyond words. You’re so near to them both I

thought that perhaps—— Do you know anything about the real state of

Mr. Alexander’s affairs?”