I
The mats were drawn at the windows and the lamp was lighted in their
“parlour.” It was a night of warm nervous wind, and, though the pounding
of the surf produced a roar which neither rose nor fell, the jungle,
stirred by shifting gusts, seemed full of nocturnal caprice, and sounded
a broken note of _tempo rubato_—as so often it did, only to make the
dreamy stillness of the following dawn more poignant.
It was a quiet evening at home. King had been enjoying a glass of
after-dinner brandy, and, as was apt to be the case at such times, the
exuberance of his mood brought a soft shine to Stella’s eyes. Just
faintly of late it had been necessary to brush aside vexing little
cobwebs that seemed, in spite of her, weaving question and debate about
the edges of her romance.... But tonight she saw how unfounded were any
quavers she might entertain—the kiss that had brought a frown—Tsuda’s
sombre disclosures.... No, she would never let her mind drift into a web
of ephemeral doubts again; she was done with morbid “premonitions” for
ever—they were intruders.
Every marriage, she reasoned, must call for certain
adjustments—concessions, if one preferred phrasing it that way. Whenever
her husband seemed brusque or abstracted, inclined to forgetfulness of
her, she would remind herself that he had a new business on his hands.
How foolish to grope, ever; to feel perturbed, unequipped! And she would
only laugh when a curious phrase of his came back to her: “Just imagine
what it would have been like if I had come here alone...!” An oddly
impersonal note it was, which had given her a jolt; though now she told
herself it was because she had been in a mood of hyper-sensitiveness.
Without realizing it, she softly laughed aloud, her thoughts playing in
rumination.
“Tell us the joke, peaches!” he suggested in his bluff, magnetic way.
“Nothing,” she replied, her eyes still shining. “I was only thinking how
wonderful it all is!”
And she drew her arms gently about her husband’s neck.