They entered into a period of secret contentment and understanding.
Ludowika displayed a grave interest in the details of the house and iron
at Myrtle Forge; he explained the processes that resulted in the wrought
blooms despatched by tons in the lumbering, mule-drawn wagons. They
explored the farm, where she listened approvingly to the changes he
proposed making, kitchen gardens to be planted, the hedges of roses and
gravelled paths to be laid--for her. She suggested an Italian walk,
latticed above, with a stone seat, and was indicating a corner that
might be transformed into a semblance of an angle of Versailles, when,
suddenly, she stopped, and clasped his wrist.
"No! No!" she exclaimed, with surprising energy. "We'll have no France,
no court, here, but only America; only you and myself, with no past, no
memories, but just the future." How that was to be realized neither of
them considered; they avoided all practical issues, difficulties. They
never mentioned Felix Winscombe's name. However, a long communication
came from him for his wife. She read it thoughtfully, in the drawing
room, awaiting dinner. No one else but Howat was present, and he was
standing with his hand on her shoulder. "Felix hasn't been well," she
remarked presently. "For the first time he has spoken to me of his age.
The Maryland affair drags, and that has wearied him."
"What does he say about returning?" Howat bluntly asked.
"Shortly, he hopes; that is, in another ten days. He says there is a
good ship, the _Lindamira_, by the middle of November." Howat said,
"Excellent." Ludowika gazed at him swiftly. "It will be difficult." His
face became grim, but he made no direct reply. A silence fell on the
room through which vibrated the blows of the trip hammer at the Forge.
The day was grey and definitely cold; a small cannon stove glowed in the
counting house; but Ludowika kept mostly to her room. She sent him a
note by the Italian, and Howat eyed the fellow bowing in the doorway. A
flexibility that seemed entirely without bones. His eyes were jet slits,
his lips shaven and mobile; a wig was repulsively saturated with scented
grease. Yet it was not in actual details that he oppressed Howat; but by
the vague suggestion of debasing commendations, of surreptitious
understanding, insinuations. He seemed, absurdly, unreal, a symbol the
intent of which Howat missed; he suppressed an insane movement to touch
the Italian, discover if he was actually before him.
He reread Ludowika's note whenever he was not actually employed in
recording, until he was obliged to conceal it in the Forge book.
Later Abner Forsythe arrived with David, and there was a stir of
preparing rooms and communication with the farm. David's mother was
dead, and Abner conducted the wedding negotiations with the Pennys. "I
thought it would be the pretty little one," he said at the table, with a
Quaker disregard of small niceties of feeling; "but, Gilbert, any girl
of yours would be more than the young men of the present deserve." It
was a difficult conversation for every one but Ludowika and Abner
Forsythe. A greater ease appeared after supper. David and Caroline
disappeared in the direction of the clavichord, from which sounded some
scattered, perfunctory measures. The two elder men returned, over a
decanter of French spirits, to the inevitable and engrossing subject of
iron and the Crown regulations; Myrtle sat stiffly before the fireplace
with Isabel Penny; and Howat moved up and across the room, his gaze
lying on Ludowika, spread in an expanse of orange chiffon and bold
silver tracery on the small sofa.
She smiled at him once, but, for the most part, she was lost in revery.
Ludowika had a fan, to hold against the fire; and her white fingers were
playing with its polished black sticks and glazed paper printed with an
ornamental bar of music. A faint colour stained her cheeks as he watched
her, and set his heart tumultuously beating. He told himself over and
over, with an unabated sense of wonder, that she was his. He longed for
the moment when they could discard all pretence and be frankly,
completely, together. That must happen after Felix Winscombe arrived.
Meanwhile he was forced to content himself with a look, a quick or
lingering contact of fingers, the crush of her body against his
momentarily in a passage. They had returned once to the rock where he
had first been intoxicated by her; in a strangling wave of emotion he
had taken her into his arms; but she had broken away. The width of the
stream and screen of trees had apparently disconcerted Ludowika, and she
contrived to make him feel inexcusably young, awkward.
But usually he dominated her; there was a depth to his passion that
achieved patience, the calmness of unassailable fortitude. She gazed at
him often with a surprise that bordered on fear; again she would delight
in his mastery, beg him to hold her forever safe against the past. He
reassured her of his ability and determination to accomplish that; there
was not the shadow of a doubt in his own mind. He was more troubled now
than formerly; but he was eager for the climax to pass, impatient to
claim his own.
As if a dam had been again thrown across the flood of his emotions he
felt them mounting, growing more and more irrepressible. He slept in
feverish snatches, with gaps in which he stared wide-eyed into the dark,
trying to realize his coming joy, visualizing Ludowika, a brilliant
apparition of flowing silk, on the night. He thought of the store house
at the Furnace, of the rain beating on the roof, and Ludowika ... God,
if that old man would only return, go, leave them! The clouds vanished
and left the nights emerald clear, the constellations glittered in
frosty immensities of silence. He stood at the open window with his
shoulders bare, revelling in the cold air that flowed over him, defying
winter, death itself. The moon waned immutably.
David was now at Shadrach Furnace, living with the Heydricks, and the
necessities that brought him to Myrtle Forge were endless. He was
absolutely happy, and Howat watched him with mingled longing and envy.
His affair, darker, more tragic in spite of a consummation that must be
joyous, seemed infinitely more mature. Caroline was a nice enough girl,
but Ludowika was supremely fascinating. David amused him:
"Caroline is a miracle. Of course there are prettier, and Mrs. Winscombe
has more air; but none has Caroline's charming manner. Of course, you
have noticed it. Even a thick-headed brother couldn't miss that. We have
plans for you, too. And it's no good your looking glum; we'll glum you."
The amusement faded from Howat's countenance, and he listened sullenly
to the end of the raillery. His temper was growing daily more uneven,
the delight had largely left his reflections. His passion had become too
insistent for happy conjecturing; the visions of Ludowika now only
tormented him. Her eyes were like burning sapphires, her warm palms
caressed his face; he was increasingly gaunt and shadowed. Once he gave
a note for her to the Italian servant, loathing the hand that adroitly
covered the folded sheet, the other's oblique smile; but she sent back
word that she was suffering from a headache. He began to plan so that he
would intercept her in unexpected places. She, too, was passionate in
her admissions; but, somehow, some one always stumbled toward them, or
they were summoned from beyond. He began to feel that this was not mere
chance, but desired, deliberately courted, by Ludowika. Very well, he
would end it all, as it were, with a shout when Felix Winscombe came
back.
When Felix Winscombe came back!
He was, too, increasingly aware of his mother's scrutiny. Howat was
certain that Isabel Penny had surmised a part of his feeling for
Ludowika. He didn't greatly care; any one might know, he thought
contemptuously. It had destroyed his sympathetic feeling for his mother,
the only considerate bond that had existed with his family.
Unconsciously he placed her on one side of a line, the other held only
Ludowika and himself.
He explained this to her in a sere reach of the garden. It was
afternoon, the sun low and a haze on the hills. Ludowika had on a
scarlet wrap, curiously vivid against the withered, brown aspect of the
faded flower stems. "You and me," he repeated. She gazed, without
answering, at the barrier of hills that closed in Myrtle Forge. From
the thickets came the clear whistling of partridges, intensifying the
unbroken tranquillity that surrounded the habitations. Howat was
suddenly conscious of the pressure of vast, unguessed regions, primitive
forces, illimitable wildernesses. It brought uppermost in him a
corresponding zest in the sheer spaciousness of the land, a feeling
always intensified by the thought of England. "The Province," he said
disjointedly, "a place for men. Did you see those that followed the road
this morning? Perhaps five with their women, some pack horses, kitchen
tins and hide tents. The men wore buckskin, and furred caps, and the
women's skirts were sewed leather. One was tramping along with a feeding
baby. Well, God knows where they have been, how many days they have
walked; their shoes were in shreds. And their faces, thin and serious,
have looked steadily over rifles at death. The women, too. You'll only
get them here, in a big country, a new--"
"They were terrible," Ludowika declared; "savage. I was glad when they
were by. The baby at the woman's great breast!" she shuddered at the
memory. "Like animals."
He gazed at her with a slight surprise; he had never heard her speak so
bitterly. He saw her more clearly than ever before; as if her words had
illuminated her extraordinary delicacy of being, had made visible all
the infinite refinements of which she was the result. He had a
recurrence of his sense of her incongruity here, balanced on polished
black pattens, against the darkening hills. The sun disappeared, there
was a cool flare of yellow light, and a feeling of impending evening.
The hills were indigo, the forest a dimmer gold, a wind moved audible in
the dry leaves.
Ludowika gasped. "It's so--so huge," she said, "all the lonely miles. At
times I can't bear to think of it." A faint dread invaded him. "Last
night, when I couldn't sleep, a thing howled in the woods. And I got
thinking of those naked men at the Forge, with their eyes rimmed in
black, and--and--"
He disregarded the publicity of their position and put an arm about her
shoulders, in an overwhelming impulse to calm and reassure her; but she
slipped away. "I'll be all right again," she promised; "but I think it's
more cheerful with the candles. We'll get your sister to play Belshazzar
and pretend we're across the green from St. James."
A mood darker than any he had lately known settled over him. It was
natural for Ludowika to be lonely, at first; but in a little she would
grow to love the wild like himself. She must. The Province was to be her
life. He was standing before the fire in the informal chamber beyond the
dining room, watching his mother's vigorous hands deftly engaged in
embroidery. There was no one present, and a sudden, totally desperate
recklessness possessed him. Isabel Penny said:
"Mr. Winscombe will be here shortly."
"I wish it would be to-night," he declared. She raised her calm gaze
with brows arched in inquiry. "There is something--" he broke off. "She
belongs to me," he said in a low, harsh voice, "and not to that old
man."
Mrs. Penny secured her needle, and put the colourful web aside. She was,
as he had been sure she would be, entirely composed, admirable. Her
questioning look grew keener. "I was afraid of that," she admitted
simply; "after the first. It is very unpleasant and difficult. This is
not London, and your father will make no allowances. You are not any
easier to bend, Howat. With Mrs. Winscombe--" she paused, "I am not
certain. But there is no doubt about the husband."
"She belongs to me," he reiterated sullenly.
"There is no need for you to make yourself offensively clear. I know
something of details of that kind. I told you once that they might mean
only a very little to--to certain women. I am not prepared to judge
about that. But I know you, what bitter feeling you are capable of. You
are a very pure man, Howat; and for that reason such an occurrence would
tear you up and across. There is no use in begging you to be cautious,
diplomatic. Mr. Winscombe, too, is very determined; he has many
advantages--maturity, coldness, experience. He won't spare you, either.
It's excessively unfortunate."
"I'll get it over as quickly as possible. I didn't want the thing to
happen, it wasn't from any choice; it hit me like a bullet. Nothing else
is of the slightest importance. I've gone over this again and again;
I'll tell him and let him try what he can. Ludowika's gone from--from
the fireworks and fiddles and stinking courts; I've got her, and, by
God, I'll keep her!"
"Talk quietly; you can't shout yourself into this. Are you certain that
Mrs. Winscombe really finds the courts--stinking? I remember, at first,"
she stopped. Even in the midst of his passion he listened for what
revelation she might make; but none followed. She was silent for a
minute. "They become a habit," she said finally; "love, loves, become a
habit. Only men brought up in the same atmosphere can understand. At
first Felix Winscombe will be infuriated with you for speaking, then he
will realize more, and the trouble will follow. Are you certain that you
have comprehended? It would be stupid to mistake an episode, you would
succeed only in making yourself ridiculous."
He lifted up both his hands and closed them with a quivering, relentless
force.
"Truly," Isabel Penny remarked, "truly I begin to be sorry for her.
There is something she has yet to learn about men. Nothing can be said;
and that is what your father will not penetrate. Howat, I am even a
little afraid ... now. That, I believe, is unusual for me. It's your
blackness, like powder. The explosion can kill. Nothing may be said.
Life drags us along by the hair."
Her questions about Ludowika joined to the memory of the latter's
revulsion from the primitive conditions of the Province and added to the
heaviness of his heart. He mentally denied his mother's suggestions,
drove them from him, but they left a faint enduring sting, a vague
unrest. His passion for Ludowika swelled, dominated, him; he forgot
everything but his own, supreme desire. Nothing else stood before its
flood; all thought of Ludowika's final happiness was lost with the other
detritus. The tense closing of his hands had symbolized his feeling, his
intent. He held her in a manner as nakedly primitive as the inchoate
sexuality of the emotion that had engulfed him.
Ludowika did not appear for supper, and he was possessed by a misery of
vague apprehensions. He must know something of her thoughts, have a
token from her of some feeling like his own; and, waiting, he stopped
the Italian on the stairs. The latter knew his purpose immediately,
without a spoken word; and he followed Howat's brusque gesture to his
room. He hastily wrote a note; and the latter brought him back a reply,
only partly satisfactory, with an air of relish. For the first time the
affair had the hateful appearance of an intrigue, like a court
adventure. It was the Italian servant, Howat decided; and immediately he
recognized why he disliked the other--it was because he expressed an
aspect of slyness that lay over Ludowika and himself. He put that from
him, too; but it was like brushing away cobwebs. His hunger for Ludowika
increased all the while; it became more burningly material, insatiable
and concrete.
On the day following she clung to him, when opportunity offered, with a
desperate energy of emotion. "You must hold me tighter," she told him.
Her mood rapidly changed, and she complained of the eternal, pervasive
fall of the forge hammer. "It will drive me mad," she declared almost
wildly. "I can't bear to think of its going on and on, year after year;
listening to it--" He heard her with sombre eyes. She had come to the
counting house, empty for the moment but for themselves, and stood with
her countenance shadowed by a frown. "If the hammer stops," he replied,
waving his hand largely, "all this, the Pennys, stop, too. I'm afraid
that sound of beating out iron will be always wrought through our lives.
You will get accustomed to it--"
Her expression grew petulant, resentful. "Do you mean that we couldn't,
perhaps, go to England, if--if I wanted?" He moved closer to her,
brushing the circumference of her skirt. "You asked me to hold you, to
keep you from the past; and I am going to do it. London is all that you
wish to forget; it must go completely out of your life ... never finger
you again." A faint dread that deepened almost to antagonism was
visible on her countenance. "I suppose to men talk like that seems a
sign of strength, of possession; but it doesn't impress women, really.
You see, women give, or else--there is nothing."
"I had no thought of impressing you," he said simply; "I only repeated
what came into my mind, what I mean. It would be a mistake for me to
take you to England, and make both of us miserable. Beside, there is
more to tend here than I'll ever accomplish." She objected, "But other
people, workmen, will do the actual labour. Surely you are not going to
keep on with anything so vulgar--" she indicated the office and desks.
Her features sharpened with contempt. "I'll not be a clerk," he told her
gravely. "But I am responsible for a great deal. You should understand
that for you showed it to me. Most of what I am now has been you." He
reached out his hands to her in a wave of tenderness, but she evaded
him. She stood irresolute for a moment and then abruptly turned and
disappeared.
A white rim of new moon grew visible at the edge of dusk, and he stood
gazing at it before he entered the dwelling. A dull unrest had become
part of his inner tumult, a premonition falling over him like an
advancing shadow. But above all his vague fears rose the knowledge that
he would never let Ludowika go from him; that was the root of his being.
Now she could never leave him. It was natural, he assured himself again,
that she should feel doubts at first; everything here was so different
from the life she had known; and women were variable. He would have to
understand that, learn to accommodate himself to changing, surface
moods, immovable underneath.
She had put on for supper, he saw, a daring dress; and her expression
was that which he had first noted, indifferent, slightly scoffing. Her
shoulders and arms gleamed under fragile gauze, her bodice was hardly
more than a caress of silk. He watched her every movement, and got a
sort of satisfaction from the knowledge that she grew increasingly
disturbed at his unwavering scrutiny. His mother's attitude toward Mrs.
Winscombe had not changed by a shade, an inflection; she was correctly
cordial in her slightly distant manner.
In the ebb and flow of the evening Howat was left with Ludowika for a
little, and he bent over her, kissing her sharply. She was coldly
unresponsive; and he kissed her again, trying vainly to bring some
warmth to her lips. She did not avoid him actually, but he felt that
something in her, essential, slipped aside from his caress. His emotion
changed to a mounting anger. "You will have to get over this now or
later," he asserted. She said surprisingly, "Felix will be home this
week." He stood with an arm half raised, his head turned, as he had been
arrested by her period.
"Well?" he demanded stupidly. Her tone had been beyond his
comprehension. "Felix," she went on, apparently at random, "is very
satisfactory." Something of her intent penetrated his stunned faculties.
He advanced toward her dark with rage. "And if he is," he replied, "it
will do him no good. It will do you no good, if you think--" he broke
off from an accession of emotion. "What damned thing are you thinking
of?"
"The Princess Amelia's stockings," she answered pertly.
"You'll never put them on her again, like any dirty chamber maid."
"Felix, the end of this week," she repeated.
"I'll kill him," Howat whispered; "if he lifts a hand I'll shoot him
through the head. This was forced on me; some one else, responsible, can
pay." Her chin was up, her expression mocking. "Ridiculous, like any
cloddish countryman." She walked deliberately away, seated herself in a
graceful eddy of panniered silk.
A cold torment succeeded his rage; he had the feeling of being
hopelessly trapped, stifling in his passion. He followed her. "Ludowika,
this is horrible, so soon. I am willing to think that I am to blame;
stupid; no experience. You will have to be patient with me. Naturally
everything, now--" he broke off and wandered to a window, holding aside
the draperies, gazing out into the night. The sky was so luminous that
the barriers of surrounding hills were printed clearly against starry
space. The forest swept about in a dark veil; nowhere could be seen a
glimpse of habitation. He heard the wavering cry of an owl.
The Province, immense, secretive! Paper lanterns strung in parks, hid
music, provocative smiles only playing with the heart! It was
tremendously unfortunate. Why must they suffer so unreasonably?
Something, he was certain, had gone wrong; it lay both within them and
outside; a force diverted, a purpose unaccomplished. It bent, broke,
them like two twigs; they were no more than two bubbles, momentarily
reflecting the sky, on a profound depth. A wind stirred, oppressed them,
and they were gone. A great pity for Ludowika took its place in his
feelings. He was sorry for himself. Suddenly the rustle of her skirts
approached.
An infinitely seductive, warm arm crept about his neck; she abandoned
herself to a ruthless embrace. "It's been wonderful, Howat; and--and it
isn't over, yet. Nothing lasts, it's a mistake to demand too much. We
must take what we may. Perhaps, even, later--in London. No, don't
interrupt me. After all, I'm wiser than you are. I was swept away for a
little. Impossibilities. I am what I am. I was always that, inside of
me. If the longing I told you about had been stronger, it, and not the
court, would have made me; but it was no more than a glimpse seen from a
window, a thing far away. I'd never reach it. This, now, has been the
best of me, all."
He had a mingled sense of the truth and futility of her words. It was
as if his passion stood apart from them, dominating them, lashing him
with desire. Nothing she might say, no necessity nor effort, could free
them. The uselessness of words smote him. She spoke again, an urgent
flow of dulcet sound against his ear; but it was without meaning, lost
in the drumming of his blood. The stir of feet approached, and he
released her, moving to the fireplace. It was Caroline. She stopped
awkwardly, advancing a needless explanation of a trivial errand from the
doorway, and vanished.
His position at Myrtle Forge was fast becoming impossible. There would
be an explosion now at any moment. He took the fire tongs and idly
rearranged the wood on the hearth. The flames blazed more brightly,
their reflection squirmed over the lacquer frames on the walls, gleamed
richly on polished black walnut, and fell across the Turkey floor
carpet. It even reached through the pale candle light and flickered on
Ludowika's dull red gown, flowered and clouded with blue. She was turned
away from him, against the window; her shoulders drooped in an attitude
of dejection. The flames died away again.