When she had bribed her maid to observe discretion concerning her plans,
and had herself attended to the business of checking her trunks through
to Reno, thus keeping her destination secret even from the woman,
Lucinda felt fairly confident of getting away unhindered and unpursued.
In the middle of the afternoon, finding she was to be detained at the
studio till the last moment, Lucinda telephoned the maid to take her
hand-luggage to the station and have it put in her drawing-room. She
caught the train with little to spare, and not until it was in motion
did she discover the box of roses in the luggage-rack overhead.
Her favorites, Hadleys, two dozen suavely moulded blooms of deepest
crimson, exquisitely fresh and fragrant; roses such as Bel had been
accustomed to send her daily, once upon a time ... how long ago!...
Eyes cloudy with the dreams of yesterday their breath inspired, Lucinda
sat a long time with the open box upon her lap.
An age since any one had sent her flowers....
The box bore the name of a city florist, but was untagged and contained
no card to identify the donor.
From Summerlad, by any chance? Lucinda didn't think so. If Lynn had
thought it worth his while to try to win her back with roses, he
wouldn't have waited so long, and he would never have neglected to
enclose a card or a note.
No: that chapter was closed, and Lynn must surely know how wasted would
be his every effort to reopen it.
In the end Lucinda concluded that the maid had bought the flowers for
her, as a gift of gratitude. Wildly fanciful as this hypothesis might
appear, there had in this instance been unusual provocation, Lucinda in
all her dealings with the woman had been more than generous.
And, after all, flowers were plentiful in Los Angeles and among the few
things reasonably priced.
Arranged in the metal catch-alls in the corners of the drawing-room,
stems bedded in wet tissue-paper, they made a brave show through the
evening, and proved rare company, too, trembling with eagerness to
salute Lucinda with lovely, friendly nods, and drenching the dead
atmosphere with a witching sweetness that called up memories like gentle
ghosts.
Their rich yet subtle perfume saturated her mood and coloured every
thought as she lay wakeful in the dark, watching the ghastly panorama of
the Cajon Pass, basking in unearthly moonlight, unfold like a march upon
the hitherside of Hell, and, later on, the vast, still ranges of the
desert, where tortured cacti entreated Heaven with frozen gestures of
torment and terror, while from afar the goblin hills looked on in dark,
sphinxlike disdain.
Here, linking widely spaced oases, where the pepper-tree and eucalyptus
shadowed roofs of ribbed iron, and the pineapple palm posed its graceful
fronds against the ungainly bulks of water-tanks on stilts, dim trails
ran with the tracks, and ever and again panting and bouncing flivvers
would spring up out of the night to race the train for a mile or so, or,
less frequently, cars more powerful would overtake and distance it as it
laboured up-grade; shapes of solid shadow hurtling through the night as
if breaking their hearts in hopeless efforts to overtake the fugitive
fans of light thrown out by their lamps ... as men pursue hope through
life ... as women pursue love....
And Lucinda, watching, wondered at life's strangeness and its sadness,
and marvelled at the mettle men are made of to sustain them through the
race, though they know the end is ever failure, heart-break, death.
The scent of roses numbed mind and senses: pain and opiate in one....
And it was as if she had slept not at all, save that she felt rested; as
if she had closed her eyes on darkness and unclosed them an instant
later to find the very scene she had been gazing on bathed in hot
splendor of sunlight, warm with colour. Still the desert stretched its
flats of sand and alkali, sage and cactus, to a far, notched rim of
hills, still the train drudged stoutly on an up-grade, buffeting the
hushed air with stentorian gasps; still upon the trail beside the tracks
raced the motor-car Lucinda had been watching when sleep claimed her....
Another car, of course. Nevertheless the coincidence was surprising.
She lay for a little lazily watching it; a powerful, spirited piece of
machinery, well-driven, breasting gallantly that long ascent about which
the train was making such great ado; drawing abeam, forging ahead,
flirting derisively a tail of dust as it vanished from the field
commanded by the window.... Bound whither? upon what urgency of life or
death? that it must make such frantic haste in the heat of the desert
sun!...
Heat was already beginning to make the tiny drawing-room resemble a
cubicle in Tophet. Lucinda rose, ransacked her luggage for her flimsiest
garments, gave her flesh the sketchy sponging which was all that
facilities permitted, dressed, and rang for the porter and a waiter from
the dining-car. While her room was being tidied up she ordered
breakfast. Before it could be served the porter turned the drawing-room
over to her again.
She waited by the window, looking out upon without seeing the few rude
buildings that composed a tank town at which the train had made a halt
for water. After that brief respite from the scent of roses she was
finding reintroduction to its influence overpowering. It took her by
the throat and subjugated her, reducing her to a most miserable estate
of nostalgic longing....
The waiter was knocking. She started up, hastily dried her eyes,
pronounced a tremulous "Come in!"
Bel entered, shut the door, dropped upon the red plush seat a duster and
cap caked with desert alkali, and stood apprehensive of his welcome, his
heart in his eyes.
She fell back to the partition, breathing his name, her whole body
vibrating like a smitten lute-string.
In a choking voice he cried: "Linda! for God's sake listen to me. I've
been up all night, driving against time to overtake you and beg you to
listen to this last appeal. I want you to promise me not to go to Reno.
Not yet, at least. Give me a little more time, a little chance to prove
to you that you're the only woman in the world for me, that I'm living
the life you'd want your husband to live, and have been ever since you
left me. Because I want you back, because I'm lost without you, because
I want to make you happy ... as you were happy when you first loved me,
long ago...."
She lifted shaking hands to him, cried his name again, swayed blindly
into his arms.
"Take me back, Bel," she whispered. "Make me happy ... Be kind to me,
Bel, be fair...."