Gila's note came to Courtland as a happy surprise. He had not expected
to see her until the next evening. Not that he had brooded much over the
matter. He was too busy and too sanely healthy to do that. Besides, he
was only as yet questioning within himself whether he was going to fall
in love. The sensation so far was exceedingly pleasurable, and he was
ready for the whole thing when it should arrive and prove itself; but at
present he was just in that quiescent stage when everything seemed
significant and delightfully interesting.
He had firmly resolved that the next time he saw Gila he would tell her
of his own heart experience with regard to the Presence. He realized
that he must go carefully, and not shock her, for he had begun to see
that all her prejudices would be against taking any stock in such an
experience. He had only so shortly himself come from a like position
that he could well understand her extreme views; her what amounted
almost to repugnance, toward hearing anything about it. But he would
make her see the whole thing, just as he had seen it.
Now Gila had no notion of allowing any such recital as Courtland was
planning. She had her stage all set for entirely another scene, and she
had on her most charming mood. She was wearing a little frock of
pale-blue wool, so simple that a child of ten might have worn it under
a white ruffled apron. The neck was decorated with a soft 'kerchief-like
collar. Not even a pin marred the simplicity of her costume. Her hair,
too, was simpler than usual, almost carrying out the childish idea with
its soft looping away from the face. Little heelless black-satin
slippers were tied with narrow black ribbons quaintly crossed and
recrossed over the slim, blue-silk ankles, carrying out the charming
idea of a modest, simple maiden. Nothing could be more coy and charming
than the way she swept her long black lashes down upon her pearly
cheeks. Her great eyes when they were lifted were clear and limpid as a
baby's. Courtland was fairly carried off his feet at sight of her, and
felt his heart bound in reassurance. This must be love! He had fallen in
love at last! He who had scorned the idea so long and laughed at the
other fellows, until he had really begun to have doubts in his own heart
whether the delightful illusion would ever come to him! The glamour was
about Gila to-night and no mistake! He looked at her with his heart in
his eyes, and she drooped her lashes to hide a glint of triumph, knowing
she had chosen her setting aright at last. Softly, dreamily, pleasantly,
in the back of her mind floated the Capitol of the nation, and herself
standing amid admiring throngs receiving homage. She was going to
succeed. She had achieved her first triumph with the look in Courtland's
eyes. She would be able to carry out Mr. Ramsey Thomas's commission and
win Courtland to anything that would forward ambitious hopes for him!
She was sure of it!
The very important business about which she had wished to see Courtland
was to ask him if he would be her partner in a bazaar and pageant that
was shortly to be given for some charitable purpose by the society folks
with whom she companioned. She wanted Courtland to march with her, and
to consult him about the characters they should choose and the costumes
they should wear.
As if she had been a child desiring him to play with her, he yielded to
her mood, watching her all the time with delighted eyes, that anything
so exquisite and lovely should stoop to sue for his favor. Of course he
would be her partner! He entered into the arrangements with a zest,
though he let her do all the planning, and heeded little what character
she had chosen for him, or what costume, so she was pleased. Indeed, his
part in the matter seemed of little moment so he might go with her--his
sweet, shy, lovely maiden! For so she seemed to him that night! A
perfect Solveig!
The reason for the little slippers became apparent later, when she
insisted upon teaching him the dancing-steps that were to be used in a
final splendid assembly after the pageant. There was intoxication in the
delight of moving with her through the dreamy steps to the music of the
expensive Victrola she set going. Just to watch her little feet like
fairies for lightness and grace; to touch her small, warm hand; to be so
near those down-drooping lashes; to feel her breath on his hand; to
think of her as trusting her lovely little self to him--made him almost
deliriously happy. And she, with her drooping lashes, her delicate way
of barely touching his arm, her utter seeming unconsciousness of his
presence, was so exquisite and pure and lovely to-night! She did not
dream, of course, of how she made his pulses thrill and how he was
longing to gather her into his arms and tell her how lovely she was.
Afterward he was never quite sure what kept him from doing it. He
thought at the time it was herself, a sort of wall of purity and
loveliness that surrounded her and made her sacred, so that he felt he
must go slowly, must not startle her nor make her afraid of him. It
never occurred to him that the wall might be surrounding himself. He had
entirely forgotten that first visit to Gila in the Mephistophelian
garments, with the red light filling all the unholy atmosphere. There
had never been so much as a hint of a red light in the room since he
said he did not like it. The lamp-shade seemed to have disappeared. In
its place was a great wrought-metal thing of old silver jeweled with
opalescent medallions.
But it was part of the deliberate intention of Gila to lead him on and
yet hold him at a distance. She had read him aright. He was a man with
an old-fashioned ideal of woman, and the citadel of his heart was only
to be taken by such a woman. Therefore, she would be such a woman until
she had won. After that? What mattered it? Let time plan the issue! She
would have attained her desire!
But the down-drooping lashes hid no unconscious sweetness. There was
sinister gleam in those eyes as she looked at herself over his shoulder
when they passed the great mirror set in a cabinet door. There was
deliberate intention in the way the little hand lay lightly in the
strong one. There was not a movement of the dreamy dance she was
teaching him, not a touch of the little satin slipper, that did not have
its nicely calculated intention to draw him on. The sooner she could
make him yield and crush her to him, the sooner he declared his passion
for her, that much nearer would her ambitions be to their fulfilment.
Yet she must be very sure that she had him close in her toils before she
discovered to him her purpose.
So the little blue Puritan-like spider threw her silver gossamer web
about him, tangling more and more his big, fine manly heart, and
flinging diamond dust, and powder made of charms and incantations, in
his eyes to blind him. But as yet she knew not of the Presence that was
now his constant companion.
They had danced for some time, floating about in the pure delight of the
motion together, and the nearness of each another, when it seemed to
Courtland as if of a sudden a cooling hand was laid on his feverish brow
and a calm came to his spirit like a beloved voice calling his name with
the accent that is sure of quick response.
It was so he remembered what he had come to tell Gila. Looking down to
that exquisite bit of humanity almost within his embrace, a great
tenderness for her, and longing, came over him, to make her know now all
that the Presence was becoming to him.
"Gila," he whispered, and his voice was full of thrill. "Let's sit down
awhile! There is something I want to tell you!"
Instantly she responded, lifting great innocent eyes, with one quick
sweep, to his face, so moved and tender; and gliding toward the couch
where they might sit together, settling down on it, almost nestling to
him, then remembering and drawing away shyly to more perfectly play her
part. She thought she knew what he was going to say. She thought she saw
the love-light in his eyes, and it was so dazzling it almost blinded
her. It frightened her a little, too, like the light in no lover's eyes
that had ever drawn her down to whisper love to her before. She wondered
if it was because she really cared herself so much now that it seemed so
different.
But he did not take her in his arms as she had expected he would do;
though he sat quite near, and spoke in a low, privileged tone, as one
would do who had the right. His arm was across the back of the couch
behind her; he sat sideways, turned toward her, and he still touched
reverently the little hand he had been holding as they danced together.
"Gila, I have a story to tell you," he said. "Until you know it you can
never understand me fully, and I want with all my heart to have you
understand me. It is something that has become a part of me."
She sat quivering, wondering, half fearful. A gleam of jealousy came
into her averted face. Was he going to tell her about another girl? A
fierce, unreasoning anger shot across her face. She would not tolerate
the thought that any one had had him before her. Was it--? It couldn't
be that baby-faced pauper in the hospital? She drew her slim little body
up tensely and waited for the story.
Courtland told the story of Stephen; told it well and briefly. He
pictured Stephen so that the girl must needs admire. No woman could have
heard that description of a man such as Stephen had been and not bow her
woman's heart and wish that she might have known him.
Gila listened, fascinated, even up to the moment of the fire and the
tragedy when Stephen fell into the flames. She shuddered visibly several
times, but sat tense and still and listened. She even was unmoved when
Courtland went on to tell of finding himself on a ledge above the
burning mass, creeping somehow into a small haven, shut in by a wall of
smoke, and feeling that this was the end. But when he began to tell of
the Presence, the Light, the Voice, the girl gave a sudden start and
gripped her cold hands together. Almost imperceptibly she drew her tense
little body away from him, and turned slowly till she faced him, horror
and consternation in her eyes, utter unbelief and scorn on her lips. But
still she did not speak, still held her gaze on him and listened, while
he told of coming back to life, the hospital walls, the strange
emptiness, and the Presence; the recovery, and the Presence still with
him; the going here and there and finding the Presence always before him
and yet with him!
"He is here in this room with us, Gila!" he said, simply, as if he had
been telling her that he had brought her some flowers and he hoped she
would like them.
Then suddenly Gila gave a spring away from him to her feet, uttered a
wild scream of terror, and burst into angry tears!
Courtland sprang to his feet in dismay and instant contrition. He had
made the horror of the fire too dramatic. He had not realized how
dreadful it would be to a woman's delicate sensibilities. This gentle,
loving girl had felt it all to her soul and her nerves had given way
before the reality of it. He had been an idiot to tell the story in that
bald way. He should have gone about it more gently. He was not used to
women. He must learn better. Would she forgive him?
And now indeed he had her in his arms, although he was utterly unaware
of it. He was trying to comfort and soothe her, as he would soothe a
little child who had been frightened. Not only his handkerchief but his
hands were called into requisition to charm away those tears and comfort
the pitiful little face that looked so streaked and pink and helpless
there against his shoulder. He wanted to stoop and lay his lips on those
trembling ones. Perhaps Gila thought he would. But he would not take
advantage of her moment of helplessness. Not until she was herself and
could give him permission would he avail himself of that sacred
privilege. Now it was the part of a man to comfort her without any
element of self in the matter.
When he had drawn her down upon the couch again, with the sobs still
shaking her soft blue-and-white frilly breast, her blue-black hair all
damp and tossed upon her temples, and tried to tell her how sorry he was
that he had put her through the horrors of that fire, she put in a
quivering protest. It was _not_ the fire. She shivered. It was not the
horror and the smoke! It was _not_ Stephen's death, nor the danger to
himself! It was not _any_ of those that had unnerved her! It was that
other awful thing he had said: that ghostly, ghastly, uncanny, dreadful
story of a Presence! She almost shrieked again as she said it, and she
shivered away from him, as if still there were something cold and clammy
in his touch that gave her the horrors.
A cold disappointment settled down upon him. She had not understood. He
looked at her, troubled, disappointed, baffled. It was not possible,
then, for him to bring her this knowledge that he wished so much for her
to have. It was a thing that one could tell about to one's friends, but
could not give to them. It was something they must take for themselves,
must feel and see by themselves! With new illumination he turned to her
and said in a voice wonderfully tender for a man so young:
"Listen, Gila! I have been clumsy in telling you! You cannot see it just
from my poor story. But He will come to _you_ and you shall see Him for
yourself! I will ask Him to come to you as He has to me!"
Again that piercing scream, and with a quick, lithe movement, almost
like a serpent, she slid from his side and stood quivering in the middle
of the room, her eyes flashing, her body shrinking, both little hands
clenched at her throat.
"Stop!" she cried. "Stop!" and screamed again, stamping her foot. "I
won't hear such horrible things! I _won't have_ any spirits coming
around me! I _won't see_ them! Do you understand? I _hate_ that
Presence, and _I hate you_ when you talk like that!"
She had worked herself into a fine tantrum, but there was behind it all
a horrible fear and shrinking from the Christ he had described, the
shrinking of the naked soul in the garden from its God. The drooping,
child-like eyes were wide with horror now; the sweet, innocent mouth was
trembling with emotion. She was anything but Solveig-like. If Courtland
caught a glimpse of the real Gila through it all he laid it to his own
clumsy way of handling the delicate mystery of a girl's shy nature. He
saw she was wrought up beyond her own control, and he was so far under
the illusion that he blamed himself only, and set himself to calm her.
He coaxed her to sit down again, put his strong hand on her quivering
one, marveling in tenderness at its smallness and softness. He talked to
her in quiet, soothing tones, grave and reassuring. He promised he would
talk no more about the Presence till she was ready to hear. He was
leaning toward her in his strength, his arm behind her, his hand on her
shoulder, with a sheltering, comforting touch when he told her this, as
one would treat a little child in trouble, and, suddenly, like the sun
flashing out from behind the clouds, she lifted up her teary face and
smiled, nestling toward him, her head falling down on his shoulder with
a sigh like a tired, satisfied child, her face lifted temptingly so
close, so very close to his.
It was then that he did the thing that bound him to what followed. He
stooped and laid his lips upon her warm little trembling ones and kissed
her. The thrill that shot through him was like the click of shackles
snapping shut about one's wrist; like the turning of the key in a
prison-house; the shooting of the bolt to one's dark cell. He held her
there and touched her soft hair with his finger-tips; touched her cool
little forehead with his lips; touched her warm, soft lips again and
felt the thrill; but something was the matter. He felt the surging
forces within him rise and batter at the gate of his self-control. He
wanted to say, "Gila, I love you!" but the words stuck in his throat.
What had he done? Whence came this sense of defeat and loss? The
Presence! Where was the Presence? Yes--there--but withdrawn, standing
apart in sadness, while he sat comforting and caressing one who had just
said she hated Him! But that was because she had not seen Him yet! She
was frightened because she did not understand! He would yet be able to
make her see! He would implore the Presence to come to her; to break
down her prejudice; to let her have the vision also!
So he sat and comforted her, yet longed to get away and think it out.
This sense of depression and bitter disappointment hung about him like a
burden; now, of all times, when he should be happy if ever he was to be!
But Gila was nestling close, patting his sleeve, talking little, sweet
nonsensical words as if she had really been the little child she seemed.
He looked down at her and smiled. How small she was, and child-like. He
must remember that she was very young, and probably had never had much
bringing-up. Serious things frightened her! He must go gently and lead
her! It made him feel old and responsible to look at her--tender,
beautiful girl!--enveloped as she was in the garment of his ideal of
womanhood.
Yet there was something about it all that drove him from her. He must
think it out and come to some clear understanding with himself. As it
was, it seemed to him as if he were trying to take peace within himself
while before him lay a lot of his own broken vows. He had vowed to
himself to bring her to the Christ and he had not accomplished it.
Instead she had declared she hated him and the Presence both; yet here
he sat making love to her and ignoring it all! He felt a distinct
weakness in himself, but did not know how to remedy it.
When he finally got away from Gila and walked feverishly toward the
university, he felt as if his soul was crying out within him for a
solution of the perplexities in which he was involved. By his side
walked a Friend, but there seemed to be a veil between them. Ever
mingling with his thoughts came the sweet, tear-wet face of Gila, with
its Solveig-look, pleading up at him from the mist of the evening,
luring him as it were to forget the Christ. He passed his hand wearily
over his eyes, told himself that he had been through a good deal that
evening and his nerves were not as strong as they used to be since the
fire.
He was surprised to find that it was still early when he got back to his
room, barely half past nine. Yet it had seemed as if it must be near
midnight, so much had happened.
What he would have thought if he could have known that at that very
minute Tennelly was seated in the chair in the library that he had so
lately vacated, and Gila, posing bewitchingly in the firelight, merrily
talking him over, is hard to say.
Not that they were saying anything against him--of course not! Tennelly
would never have stood for that, and Gila knew better. But Gila had no
intention of giving Tennelly any idea how far matters had gone between
herself and Courtland. As for Tennelly, he would have been the most
amazed of the three if he could have known all. He had been Courtland's
intimate friend for so many years--years count like ages when one is in
college--that he thought he knew him perfectly. He would have sworn to
it that Courtland's friendship with Gila had not progressed further than
a mere first stage of friendship. He admitted that Gila had an influence
over his friend, but that it had really gone heart-deep seemed
impossible. Courtland was a man of too much force, even young as he was,
and too much maturity of thought, to be permanently entangled with a
girl like Gila. That was what Tennelly thought before Gila had turned
her eyes toward him and flung a few of her silver gossamer threads about
his soul. For always in those first days of his visits to Gila it had
been in Courtland's behalf; first, to see if she was good enough for a
friend of his friend, and next to get her partnership in the scheme of
turning Courtland's thoughts away from "morbid" things.
But that night for the first time Tennelly saw the Solveig in Gila, and
was stirred on his own account. The childish blue frock and the simple
frilled 'kerchief did their work with his high soul as well; and he sat,
charmed, and watched her. After all, there was more to her than he had
thought, or else she was a consummate actress! So Tennelly sat late
before the fire, till Gila knew that he would turn aside again often to
see her for himself, and then she let him go.