At nine o'clock the moon was on the lake, and several couples,
announcing their need of exercise, went out in boats.
Clavering rowed with long swift strokes until the others were far
behind. Mary, muffled in a warm white coat and with a scarf twisted
round her head like an Oriental turban, lay on a pile of cushions in
the bottom of the boat, her head against the seat. She had the
sensation of floating in space. From the middle of the lake the forest
on every side was a mass of shadows, and nothing was visible but that
high vast firmament sprinkled with silver--silver dust scattered by the
arrogant moon. The great silver disk, which, Mary murmured, looked
like the tomb of dead gods, seemed to challenge mortals as well as
planets to deny that he was lord of all, and that even human emotions
must dwindle under his splendor.
"The moon is so impersonal," she sighed. "I wonder why the poets have
made so much of it? I'm sure it cares nothing about lovers--less about
poets--and thinks the old days, when the world was a heaving splitting
chaos, and glaciers were tearing what was already made of it to bits,
were vastly superior to the finished perfection of form today. Like
all old things. If it has the gods in there, no doubt it wakes them up
periodically to remind them how much better things were in their time.
Myself, I prefer the sun. It is far more glamoring."
"That is because you can't look it in the eye," said Clavering, smiling
down on her. "You really don't know it half as well, and endow it with
all sorts of mysterious attributes. I think I prefer the moon, because
it is inimitable. You can counterfeit the light and warmth and heat of
the sun, and even its color. But silver is used to describe the
complexion of the moon only for want of a better word. It is neither
silver nor white, but is the result of some mysterious alchemy known
only to itself. And its temperature does not affect our bodies at all.
You cannot deny that it has exercised a most beneficent effect on the
spirits of lovers and poets for all the centuries we know of. Every
pair of lovers has some cherished memories of moonlight, and poets
would probably have starved without its aid. It is a most benevolent
old god, and the one thing connected with Earth that doesn't mind
working overtime."
"I'm sure it must be frayed at the edges and hollow at the core. And
when it is in the three-quarters it looks exactly like a fish that has
lost its platter."
"If you continue to insult the moon, I shall take you back to camp and
ask Minor to teach you how to jazz."
"I love the moon," said Mary contentedly, and pushing a cushion between
her head and the sharp edge of the seat, "I'd like to stay out all
night."
They continued to talk nonsense for a while and then fell silent. When
the boat was almost at the head of the lake Clavering turned it into a
long water lane where the maples met overhead and the low soft leaves
kept up a continual whispering. It was as dark as a tunnel, but he
knew every inch of the way and presently shot out into another lake,
small enough for its shores to be sharply outlined under the full light
of the moon, which appeared to have poised itself directly overhead.
Here it was less silent than on the larger lake. There was a chorus of
frogs among the lily pads, an owl hooted wistfully in the forest, and
they heard an angry snort from the underbrush, followed by a trampling
retreat.
"I fancy if we had lingered quietly in that passage we should have seen
deer drinking from that patch of sward over there," said Clavering.
"But I was not thinking of deer."
"What were you thinking of?"
"Why--you--in a way, I suppose. If I was thinking at all. I was
merely filled with a vast content. God! I have found more than I ever
dreamed any man could imagine he wanted. Vastly more than any man's
deserts. It is an astonishing thing for a man to be able to say."
Mary sat up suddenly. "Be careful. A little superstition is a good
thing to keep in one's bag of precautions."
"I feel good enough to disdain it. Of course I may be struck by
lightning tomorrow, or the car may turn turtle when we go down to be
married, but I refuse to contemplate anything of the sort. I feel as
arrogant as that moon up there, who may have all the gods inside him,
and do not mind proclaiming aloud that earth is heaven."
"Well--it is." She was not superstitious herself, but she was suddenly
invaded by a sinister inexplicable fear, and smiled the more brightly
to conceal it. But she lowered her eyelids and glanced hastily about
her, wondering if an enemy could be hiding in those dark woods. She
was not conscious of possessing enemies venomous enough to assassinate
her, but she knew little of Clavering's life after all, and he was the
sort of man who must inspire hate as well as love . . . danger
assuredly was lurking somewhere . . . it seemed to wash against her
brain, carrying its message. . . . But there were no wild beasts in
the Adirondacks, nor even reptiles. . . . Nor a sound. The owl had
given up his attempt to entice his lady out for a rendezvous and the
frogs had paused for breath. There was not the faintest rustle in the
forest except those eternally whispering leaves and the faint surging
tide in the tree-tops. That ugly invading fear was still in her eyes
as she met his.
"What is the matter?" he asked. "You look frightened."
"I am a little--I have a curious feeling of uneasiness--as if something
were going to happen."
"'Out of the depths of the hollow gloom,
On her soul's bare sands she heard it boom,
The measured tide of the sea of doom,'"
he quoted lightly. "I fancy when one is too happy, the jealous gods
run the quicksilver of our little spiritual barometers down for a
moment, merely to remind us that we are mortals after all."
The shadow on her face lifted, and she smiled into his ardent eyes.
"Ah, Mary!" he whispered. "Mary!"