THE VALLEY OF INDECISION
Early evening it was, several days later, evening of a sultry, stifling
day, which had escaped the bounds of longitude and invaded even the
North Shore. The open ocean, itself, seemed to have forgotten its
habitual unrest and yielded to the general languor. From the Thayers'
summer home--a glorified bungalow, broad of veranda and shingled
silvery-olive, atop a long, terraced bank--it had the appearance of a
limitless mirror, reflecting the unblemished blue infinity of the sky.
Only the never-ceasing series of vague white lines which ever crept up
the shelving beach, to vanish like half-formed dreams, showed that,
although the mighty deep slept, its bosom rose and fell as it breathed.
The sky was a hazy horizon blue, unblemished save for a few vaporous
clouds far in the west; the sun, well toward the end of its journey, was
hazy, too, a thing of mystery; in the far eastern distance the broad
Atlantic softened to a hazy violet-gray which, in turn, blended, almost
without a line of demarcation, into the still more distant heavens.
Far out, above the waters, a solitary gull circled with slow, sweeping
curves, and now and again planed to the surface of the sea and struck
from it a faint white spark.
On the screened-in veranda, the members of the family, which now
included Rose, sat or reclined, in attitudes of indolence, the men in
negligee shirts and white flannels, the women in light dresses.
Rose--who had, the day before, officially declared herself "off" the
case; but had stayed on, a guest, at the general solicitation--wore a
white dimity faintly sprinkled with her favorite rosebuds.
Her ex-patient sat on a little stool close by her side, a book of fairy
stories resting on her elevated bare knees. The companionship of her
beloved Smiles had already brought the warm color of health back to her
cheeks and banished the listless look from her eyes. Her mother and Mr.
MacDonald, Senior, were reading. Rose, chin resting on her cupped palm,
was gazing seaward with a dreamy, far-away expression in her eyes, as
blue as the sea itself. Donald sat back of her, and scarcely turned his
gaze from the even contour of her cheek and neck and the shimmering
glory of her hair, as he pulled leisurely at his cigar.
Only little Don showed signs of activity; for, with the boundless energy
of four-and-a-half years, he was skidding and rolling industriously from
one end of the porch to the other on a kiddie-car--a relic of the year
before, and now much too small for him. With more or less dexterity he
was weaving his way in and out among the various obstacles, animate and
otherwise.
After looking for many silent minutes at the girl he loved, Donald said,
tritely, "A penny for your thoughts, Smiles."
"Sir, you value them too high. I was thinking about you," she laughed.
"A likely story! I know well enough that your mind was far away from the
present spot--the far-off expression on your face is indication enough
of that. Furthermore, I'll wager that I can guess pretty nearly where
they were."
It was a random shot, but he was disquieted to observe that it brought a
faint blush in her cheeks. The added color, soft and lovely in itself,
was darkly reflected on his heart.
Jumping up, Smiles cried, with a mock pout, "I shan't stay here to be
made the subject of a demonstration of clairvoyancy. My thoughts are my
own, and I mean to keep them so, sir."
As she ran into the house Donald's eyes followed her, moodily. And if he
had, indeed, possessed the power of divination which he had laid
pretence to, the expression in them, and the shadow on his spirit, would
have been justified.
Rose ran lightly upstairs, and, as she approached her room, drew from
within her waist a letter. There was something both mysterious and
childlike in the manner that she next opened one of the drawers of her
dressing table and, taking out a box which held almost all of her modest
treasures, started to place the letter with them.
Instead, however, she paused to lift out a neat little package
containing a score or more of other epistles, tied together with a white
ribbon. For a moment she hesitated, as though she were both mentally and
physically weighing the objects held in either hand. A shadow of strange
uncertainty came into her eyes, the outward expression of an inward
uncertainty foreign to her nature. Slowly, she turned from her
reflection in the mirror and dropped down on the edge of the daintily
counterpaned bed. With hesitating fingers she untied the ribbon from the
package and began to glance through the unbound letters, pausing at
intervals to read stray paragraphs from them. Each one began and ended
almost the same--"Dear little Smiles" and "Affectionately your friend,
Donald."
There was the one which contained the allegory of the steep path--which
now lay behind her; the one in which he told her of little Donald's
advent into the world and of his own betrothal to Marion Treville, and
as she read that sentence which held so much of import in the lives of
both of them, she sighed, "Poor Don. He hasn't mentioned her; but her
faithlessness must have struck deep, for he is, oh, so changed and more
reserved." There were other letters filled with the spirit of
_camaraderie_, and then the later ones, strong, simple, with their
stories of others' sacrifice in the great cause of humanity.
When the last one was read and laid upon the others, she sat with them
in her lap for a moment, musing. The suspicion of tears shone in her
eyes as she finally shook her head, and, evening them carefully, retied
them.
"No," she whispered, half aloud, "I mustn't be foolish. He's just my
brother, that is the way he cares for me. It has always been like that.
And I ... I mustn't be foolish."
Almost angrily she brushed away the single tear which had started its
uncertain course down her cheek.
With a gesture of resolution, she stood up and placed the package in its
box. The other letter was about to follow; but, as she started to lay it
down, she changed her mind, and, with the flush again mounting her
cheeks, took it from the envelope, which bore a special delivery stamp,
postmarked in Boston that very morning.
Opening it, she read:
"My dearest Smiles:
Will you be the bearer of a message from me to your kind hostess?
As you know, she has invited me down to Manchester-by-the-Sea for
the week-end, as a surprise for Donald, and I have heretofore been
unable to give a definite answer. Now I have banished everything
else from my mind and shall arrive about seven-thirty.
You wonder, perhaps, why I haven't written this direct to her? In
answering my own question I have a confession--yes, _two_
confessions to make. A poor excuse is better than none, and I have
sent the message to Ethel, through you, merely as an excuse for
writing you.
To my own surprise I have discovered that I have suddenly become a
moral coward, and am obliged to descend to subterfuges in order to
bolster up my courage. This isn't a usual thing with me, I think,
but neither is the occasion. I've been wanting and planning to tell
you something, face to face, for a long time; but at the crucial
moment my courage has failed each time. I could not nerve myself to
bear the possibility of the wrong answer.
Now I cannot put it off any longer and I am forced to tell you that
'something' in this manner. It is a simple message, dear, but it
has meant more than any other to the world through all ages, and it
means more to me than all the world, now. I love you, Rose,--I want
to marry you.
There is not anything more that need be said; you can imagine all
the rest that I would say if I were with you in person, as I shall
be with you in spirit as you read those words. I suspect that even
they were not necessary. You must have guessed my love, which has
grown steadily during these past three years, and have understood
why I could not speak it before. It was not merely that the ethics
of our relation forced me to keep silent; but I have felt, since
you are situated as you are, and Donald is still morally, if not
legally, your guardian and protector, I should speak to him first.
I have done so. My love for you was almost the first thing that he
heard about, on reaching home. And Smiles, dearest, he has gladly
given his consent to my suit and wished me luck.
Now that I have written the fateful message, my courage is
restored, in part at least, and I want to hear the answer from your
own sweet lips. I can scarcely wait to hear it, for presumptuous as
it is--I cannot help hoping that it will be the one I so desire. I
cannot help believing that you do care for me.
Please don't run away, dear. I want to see you, alone, as soon as I
reach Manchester.
With all my heart and soul I am
Your lover, Philip."
Smiles slowly replaced the note, her first love letter, in its envelope,
laid it in the box and locked this in the drawer. With her hands resting
on the dresser she leaned forward and looked searchingly into her own
eyes, as though trying to read her very heart. Her lips moved and formed
the words, "He cannot help hoping that the answer will be the one he
desires. He knows that I _do_ care for him. Yes, he cannot help knowing
it; I am too simple to hide my feelings, and he has been so sweet that I
could not help ... but ... oh, I wish that I hadn't got to tell him ...
to-night."
Meanwhile Donald had been sitting for many minutes in the silence born
of laboring thoughts. He had guessed Smiles' secret in part, but not in
its entirety, and the bitter unhappiness, which had had its inception in
Philip's disclosure, lay over his soul like a pall.
His father was the first to speak, and his words caused Donald to start,
for they seemed to be the result of telepathic communication.
"You told us, once, that she wasn't a witch, but, by Jove, there's both
witchery and healing in that smile of hers, Don. Look at Muriel now.
It's nothing less than a miracle what the very presence of Rose has done
for her."
"I was wrong," answered Donald, shortly, whereupon Ethel laid aside her
book and joined in the conversation in a low voice, so that the absorbed
Muriel might not hear.
"You love her, Don, it's perfectly obvious. What are you waiting for?
Now that Marion has behaved so shamefully, it is my dearest hope that
you will marry Rose. I didn't mean to speak of it; but, really, you are
changing, Donald, and I don't want to think of your becoming a
self-centred old bachelor."
"Ethel's right," supplemented his father. "I'm only surprised that you
haven't asked her before. You've been in the same house with her for a
whole week. Don't let one ... er ... unfortunate experience discourage
you."
Donald carefully knocked the ashes from his pipe, got up, walked to the
railing, and stood with his back toward them.
Then he laughed, a trifle bitterly.
"Thanks for the advice. I won't pretend that I don't ... care for her;
but I can't ask her to marry me, as you suggest--that is, not now."
"Why not, I should like to know?" demanded his sister, impatiently.
"I can't explain, either; but there is a reason. I am bound in honor.
Please don't say anything more about it."
But Ethel was not to be silenced so easily.
"I don't know what you are talking about; but it's nonsense, anyway,"
she answered. "Why, she worships you. Any one can see that."
"Worships me!" echoed Donald, with sarcastic inflection. "What's the
sense in exaggerating like that, Ethel? I suppose that she is fond of me
in a way; the way you are, but ..."
"I never suspected you of lacking courage before," interrupted the
other. "If you haven't the nerve to ask that child yourself, _I_ will. I
guess that I'm a better judge of feminine nature than you, Donald."
"You failed to prove it once before," he retorted, and instantly added,
with a tone of unusual contrition, "I am sorry I said that. It was
unnecessary and unworthy. But, really, I can't allow you to play Mrs.
John Alden to my Miles Standish. There is a reason ..."
"Oh, you men. You're all alike, when you climb on some sort of a high
horse and become mysterious. I don't know what you are talking
about--perhaps you are deluding yourself with an absurdly chivalrous
notion about being her guardian--but I tell you this. A normal girl, who
is as full of life as Rose, can't be expected to be like the wishy-washy
heroines of some murky novel, remain faithful unto death to her first
unrequited love, and turn into a sweetly spiritual old maid, waiting for
the hero to come and claim her. ''Tain't accordin' ter huming nater,' as
Captain Jim says. The mating call is too strong, and she is sure to
respond to the love note of another sooner or later;--don't flatter
yourself that you are the only man in Smiles' creation. She's as sweet
and pure as any girl could be, but she's human, like the rest of us ...
that's what makes me love her so, and, unless 'you speak for yourself,
John' ..."
"I can't, Ethel, I ... s-s-sh."
The girl's light footsteps on the descending stairs caused him to break
off with a low note of warning, and hardly had he resumed his seat
before she was sitting on the arm of the chair and rumpling his wavy
hair, as naturally as a child, or a sister.
Watching him closely, Ethel saw the veins begin to swell on the back of
his muscular hand, as his fingers gripped the other arm of the chair.
She sighed, and then a look of wondering distress came into her face as
the thought flashed unbidden through her mind, "I wonder if it is
possible that he made some unfortunate, entangling alliance in France,
after he heard from Marion? It isn't impossible. Men are often caught on
the rebound like that."
Donald was the first to make an effort to introduce a new subject into
the thoughts of all, by saying, "Doesn't the _Water Witch_ look pretty
in this light?" as he pointed to a trim little eighteen-foot race-about,
whose highly polished mahogany sides, free from paint, reflected the
water which reflected them. "I don't know as I have properly thanked you
for having her put in commission for me, Ethel."
"I thought that it would please you, and I had them overhaul and rig her
as soon as I learned that you were coming home."
"Please me! Well, I should say 'vraiment.' Come, Smiles, let's run away
from all the world beside, and I'll show you my skill as a skipper."
Ethel sent a meaning glance in the direction of her father, but he was
laughing; "'Skill as a skipper,' indeed, on such an evening as this! He
would be an amateur, for certain, who couldn't steer with one arm free.
Whew, there isn't a breath."
"There is going to be, and not many minutes from now. Unless I miss my
guess we'll have a thunderstorm, and a west wind which will make short
work of this humidity. There, feel that breeze? Ouch, you little devil,
get off my foot. It may be large but it wasn't built for a kiddie-car
racetrack."
The obstacle had caused an upset, and baby Don, more angry than hurt, to
be sure, set up a howl and ran to Smiles' arms for comfort.
"You'll spoil that baby," growled his uncle. "Well, what do you say, are
you coming?"
He stood up, and stretched his powerful frame in anticipation of the
exercise that he loved.
"If you don't mind, Donald, I'd ... I'd rather not ... to-night,"
answered Rose.
"I'm afraid that you don't like the ocean; I rather thought that you
wouldn't," he responded gently, for he had in mind the fact that both of
her parents had met their death by drowning. The girl sat silently for a
little while, with her eyes fixed upon the waters, here and there upon
the surface of which had begun to appear shadowy streaks of varying
tones, as though the Master Painter were deftly sweeping a mighty,
invisible brush across the pictured surface. Interblending shades of
soft green, gray and violet came and disappeared.
Without turning her head, she answered, pensively, "It is very, very
beautiful and I love it--in a way. But I am afraid of it, too. Yes, I
like the lordly mountains better, Don. To me there is always something
sinister about the sea, even when it is in as peaceful a mood as this;
storms come upon it so swiftly, and it has taken so many precious
lives."
Donald laid an understanding hand upon her shoulder for a brief moment.
"I won't urge you," he said. "Let's go for a little walk, then."
"I ... I can't do that, either, Donald. It was meant to be a surprise,
but ... Dr. Bentley is coming down from Boston to-night, and I promised
... that is, he has asked me to ... to go somewhere with him." Rose was
blushing again.
"Oh, I see. I didn't know that Phil was coming, although, of course, he
has a standing invitation, and knows that I'm always delighted to see
him," answered Donald, in a tone which he made natural with an effort.
"I invited him especially," broke in Ethel. "And he accepted in a letter
to Rose."