CONFIDENCES
When Spring grows old, and sleepy winds
Set from the South with odors sweet,
I see my love in green, cool groves,
Speed down dusk aisles on shining feet.
She throws a kiss and bids me run,
In whispers sweet as roses' breath;
I know I can not win the race,
And at the end I know is death.
O race of love! we all have run
Thy happy course through groves of spring,
And cared not, when at last we lost,
For life, or death, or anything!
--_Atalanta: Maurice Thompson_.
Miss Patricia received me the following afternoon on the lawn at St.
Agatha's where, in a cool angle of the buildings, a maid was laying the
cloth on a small table.
"It is good of you to come. Helen will be here presently. She went
for a walk on the shore."
"You must both of you make free of the Glenarm preserve. Don't
consider the wall over there a barricade; it's merely to add to the
picturesqueness of the landscape."
Miss Patricia was quite rested from her journey, and expressed her
pleasure in the beauty and peace of the place in frank and cordial
terms. And to-day I suspected, what later I fully believed, that she
affected certain old-fashioned ways in a purely whimsical spirit. Her
heart was young enough, but she liked to play at being old! Sister
Theresa's own apartments had been placed at her disposal, and the
house, Miss Patricia declared, was delightfully cool.
"I could ask nothing better than this. Sister Margaret is most kind in
every way. Helen and I have had a peaceful twenty-four hours--the
first in two years--and I feel that at last we have found safe
harborage."
"Best assured of it, Miss Holbrook! The summer colony is away off
there and you need see nothing of it; it is quite out of sight and
sound. You have seen Annandale--the sleepiest of American villages,
with a curio shop and a candy and soda-fountain place and a picture
post-card booth which the young ladies of St. Agatha's patronize
extensively when they are here. The summer residents are just
beginning to arrive on their shore, but they will not molest you. If
they try to land over here we'll train our guns on them and blow them
out of the water. As your neighbor beyond the iron gate of Glenarm I
beg that you will look upon me as your man-at-arms. My sword, Madam, I
lay at your feet."
"Sheathe it, Sir Laurance; nor draw it save in honorable cause," she
returned on the instant, and then she was grave again.
"Sister Margaret is most kind in every way; she seems wholly discreet,
and has assured me of her interest and sympathy," said Miss Patricia,
as though she wished me to confirm her own impression.
"There's no manner of doubt of it. She is Sister Theresa's assistant.
It is inconceivable that she could possibly interfere in your affairs.
I believe you are perfectly safe here in every way, Miss Holbrook. If
at the end of a week your brother has made no sign, we shall be
reasonably certain that he has lost the trail."
"I believe that is true; and I thank you very much."
I had come prepared to be disillusioned, to find her charm gone, but
her small figure had even an added distinction; her ways, her manner an
added grace. I found myself resisting the temptation to call her
quaint, as implying too much; yet I felt that in some olden time, on
some noble estate in England, or, better, in some storied colonial
mansion in Virginia, she must have had her home in years long gone,
living on with no increase of age to this present. She was her own
law, I judged, in the matter of fashion. I observed later a certain
uniformity in the cut of her gowns, as though, at some period, she had
found a type wholly comfortable and to her liking and thereafter had
clung to it. She suggested peace and gentleness and a beautiful
patience; and I strove to say amusing things, that I might enjoy her
rare luminous smile and catch her eyes when she gave me her direct gaze
in the quick, challenging way that marked her as a woman of position
and experience, who had been more given to command than to obey.
"Did you think I was never coming, Aunt Pat? That shore-path calls for
more strenuous effort than I imagined, and I had to change my gown
again."
Helen Holbrook advanced quickly and stood by her aunt's chair, nodding
to me smilingly, and while we exchanged the commonplaces of the day,
she caught up Miss Pat's hand and held it a moment caressingly. The
maid now brought the tea. Miss Pat poured it and the talk went forward
cheerily.
The girl was in white, and at the end of a curved bench, with a variety
of colored cushions about her and the bright sward and tranquil lake
beyond, she made a picture wholly agreeable to my eyes. Her hair was
dead black, and I saw for the first time that its smooth line on her
brow was broken by one of those curious, rare little points called
widow's peak. They are not common, nor, to be sure, are they
important; yet it seemed somehow to add interest to her graceful pretty
head.
It was quite clear in a moment that Helen was bent on treating me
rather more amiably than on the day before, while at the same time
showing her aunt every deference. I was relieved to find them both
able to pitch their talk in a light key. The thought of sitting daily
and drearily discussing their troubles with two exiled women had given
me a dark moment at the station the day before; but we were now having
tea in the cheerfullest fashion in the world; and, as for their
difficulties, I had no idea whatever that they would be molested so
long as they remained quietly at Annandale. Miss Pat and her niece
were not the hysterical sort; both apparently enjoyed sound health, and
they were not the kind of women who see ghosts in every alcove and go
to bed to escape the lightning.
"Oh, Mr. Donovan," said Helen Holbrook, as I put down her cup, "there
are some letters I should like to write and I wish you would tell me
whether it is safe to have letters come for us to Annandale; or would
it be better to send nothing from here at all? It does seem odd to
have to ask such a question--" and she concluded in a tone of distress
and looked at me appealingly.
"We must take no risks whatever, Helen," remarked Miss Pat decisively.
[Illustration: "We must take no risks whatever, Helen."]
"Does no one know where you are?" I inquired of Miss Patricia.
"My lawyer, in New York, has the name of this place, sealed; and he put
it away in a safety box and promised not to open it unless something of
very great importance happened."
"It is best to take no chances," I said; "so I should answer your
question in the negative, Miss Holbrook. In the course of a few weeks
everything may seem much clearer; and in the meantime it will be wiser
not to communicate with the outer world."
"They deliver mail through the country here, don't they?" asked Helen.
"It must be a great luxury for the farmers to have the post-office at
their very doors."
"Yes, but the school and Mr. Glenarm always send for their own mail to
Annandale."
"Our mail is all going to my lawyer," said Miss Pat, "and it must wait
until we can have it sent to us without danger."
"Certainly, Aunt Pat," replied Helen readily. "I didn't mean to give
Mr. Donovan the impression that my correspondence was enormous; but it
is odd to be shut up in this way and not to be able to do as one likes
in such little matters."
The wind blew in keenly from the lake as the sun declined and Helen
went unasked and brought an India shawl and put it about Miss Pat's
shoulders. The girl's thoughtfulness for her aunt's comfort pleased
me, and I found myself liking her better.
It was time for me to leave and I picked up my hat and stick. As I
started away I was aware that Helen Holbrook detained me without in the
least appearing to do so, following a few steps to gain, as she said, a
certain view of the lake that was particularly charming.
"There is nothing rugged in this landscape, but it is delightful in its
very tranquillity," she said, as we loitered on, the shimmering lake
before us, the wood behind ablaze with the splendor of the sun. She
spoke of the beauty of the beeches, which are of noble girth in this
region, and paused to indicate a group of them whose smooth trunks were
like massive pillars. As we looked back I saw that Miss Pat had gone
into the house, driven no doubt by the persistency of the west wind
that crisped the lake. Helen's manner changed abruptly, and she said:
"If any difficulty should arise here, if my poor father should find out
where we are, I trust that you may be able to save my aunt anxiety and
pain. That is what I wished to say to you, Mr. Donovan."
"Certainly," I replied, meeting her eyes, and noting a quiver of the
lips that was eloquent of deep feeling and loyalty. She continued
beside me, her head erect as though by a supreme effort of
self-control, and with I knew not what emotions shaking her heart. She
continued silent as we marched on and I felt that there was the least
defiance in her air; then she drew a handkerchief from her sleeve,
touched it lightly to her eyes, and smiled.
"I had not thought of quite following you home! Here is Glenarm
gate--and there lie your battlements and towers."
"Rather they belong to my old friend, John Glenarm. In his goodness of
heart he gave me the use of the place for the summer; and as generosity
with another's property is very easy, I hereby tender you our
fleet--canoes, boats, steam launch--and the stable, which contains a
variety of traps and a good riding-horse or two. They are all at your
service. I hope that you and your aunt will not fail to avail
yourselves of each and all. Do you ride? I was specially charged to
give the horses exercise."
"Thank you very much," she said. "When we are well settled, and feel
more secure, we shall be glad to call on you. Father Stoddard
certainly served us well in sending us to you, Mr. Donovan."
In a moment she spoke again, quite slowly, and with, I thought, a very
pretty embarrassment.
"Aunt Pat may have spoken of another difficulty--a mere annoyance,
really," and she smiled at me gravely.
"Oh, yes; of the youngster who has been troubling you. Your father and
he have, of course, no connection."
"No; decidedly not. But he is a very offensive person, Mr. Donovan.
It would be a matter of great distress to me if he should pursue us to
this place."
"It is inconceivable that a gentleman--if he is a gentleman--should
follow you merely for the purpose of annoying you. I have heard that
young ladies usually know how to get rid of importunate suitors."
"I have heard that they have that reputation," she laughed back. "But
Mr. Gillespie--"
"That's the name, is it? Your aunt did not mention it."
"Yes; he lives quite near us at Stamford. Aunt Pat disliked his father
before him, and now that he is dead she visits her displeasure on the
son; but she is quite right about it. He is a singularly unattractive
and uninteresting person, and I trust that he will not find us."
"That is quite unlikely. You will do well to forget all about
him--forget all your troubles and enjoy the beauty of these June days."
We had reached Glenarm gate, and St. Agatha's was now hidden by the
foliage along the winding path. I was annoyed to realize how much I
enjoyed this idling. I felt my pulse quicken when our eyes met. Her
dark oval face was beautiful with the loveliness of noble Italian women
I had seen on great occasions in Rome. I had not known that hair could
be so black, and it was fine and soft; the widow's peak was as sharply
defined on her smooth forehead as though done with crayon. Dark women
should always wear white, I reflected, as she paused and lifted her
head to listen to the chime in the tower of the little Gothic chapel--a
miniature affair that stood by the wall--a chime that flung its melody
on the soft summer air like a handful of rose-leaves. She picked up a
twig and broke it in her fingers; and looking down I saw that she wore
on her left hand an emerald ring identical with the one worn by her
aunt. It was so like that I should have believed it the same, had I
not noted Miss Pat's ring but a few minutes before. Helen threw away
the bits of twig when we came to the wall, and, as I swung the gate
open, paused mockingly with clasped hands and peered inside.
"I must go back," she said. Then, her manner changing, she dropped her
hands at her side and faced me.
"You will warn me, Mr. Donovan, of the first approach of trouble. I
wish to save my aunt in every way possible--she means so much to me;
she has made life easy for me where it would have been hard."
"There will be no trouble, Miss Holbrook. You are as safe as though
you were hidden in a cave in the Apennines; but I shall give you
warning at the first sign of danger."
"My father is--is quite relentless," she murmured, averting her eyes.
I turned to retrace the path with her; but she forbade me and was gone
swiftly--a flash of white through the trees--before I could parley with
her. I stared after her as long as I could hear her light tread in the
path. And when she had vanished a feeling of loneliness possessed me
and the country quiet mocked me with its peace.
I clanged the Glenarm gates together sharply and went in to dinner; but
I pondered long as I smoked on the star-hung terrace. Through the wood
directly before me I saw lights flash from the small craft of the lake,
and the sharp tum-tum of a naphtha launch rang upon the summer night.
Insects made a blur of sound in the dark and the chant of the katydids
rose and fell monotonously.
I flung away a half-smoked cigar and lighted my pipe. There was no
disguising the truth that the coming of the Holbrooks had got on my
nerves--at least that was my phrase for it. Now that I thought of it,
they were impudent intruders and Paul Stoddard had gone too far in
turning them over to me. There was nothing in their story, anyhow; it
was preposterous, and I resolved to let them severely alone. But even
as these thoughts ran through my mind I turned toward St. Agatha's,
whose lights were visible through the trees, and I knew that there was
nothing honest in my impatience. Helen Holbrook's eyes were upon me
and her voice called from the dark; and when the clock chimed nine in
the tower beyond the wall memory brought back the graceful turn of her
dark head, the firm curve of her throat as she had listened to the
mellow fling of the bells.
And here, for the better instruction of those friends who amuse
themselves with the idea that I am unusually susceptible, as they say,
to the charms of woman, I beg my reader's indulgence while I state,
quite honestly, the flimsy basis of this charge. Once, in my twentieth
year, while I was still an undergraduate at Trinity, Dublin, I went to
the Killarney Lakes for a week's end. My host--a fellow student--had
taken me home to see his horses; but it was not his stable, but his
blue-eyed sister, that captivated my fancy. I had not known that
anything could be so beautiful as she was, and I feel and shall always
feel that it was greatly to my credit that I fell madly in love with
her. Our affair was fast and furious, and lamentably detrimental to my
standing at Trinity. I wrote some pretty bad verses in her praise, and
I am not in the least ashamed of that weakness, or that the best
florist in Ireland prospered at the expense of my tailor and laundress.
It lasted a year, and to say that it was like a beautiful dream is
merely to betray my poor command of language. The end, too, was
fitting enough, and not without its compensations: I kissed her one
night--she will not, I am sure, begrudge me the confession; it was a
moonlight night in May; and thereafter within two months she married a
Belfast brewer's son who could not have rhymed eyes with skies to save
his malted soul.
Embittered by this experience I kept out of trouble for two years, and
my next affair was with a widow, two years my senior, whom I met at a
house in Scotland where I was staying for the shooting. She was a bit
mournful, and lavender became her well. I forgot the grouse after my
first day, and gave myself up to consoling her. She had, as no other
woman I have known has had, a genius--it was nothing less--for graceful
attitudes. To surprise her before an open fire, her prettily curved
chin resting on her pink little palm, her eyes bright with lurking
tears, and to see her lips twitch with the effort to restrain a sob
when one came suddenly upon her--but the picture is not for my clumsy
hand! I have never known whether she suffered me to make love to her
merely as a distraction, or whether she was briefly amused by my ardor
and entertained by the new phrases of adoration I contrived for her. I
loved her quite sincerely; I am glad to have experienced the tumult she
stirred in me--glad that the folding of her little hands upon her
knees, as she bent toward the lighted hearth in that old Scotch manor,
and her low, murmuring, mournful voice, made my heart jump. I told
her--and recall it without shame--that her eyes were adorable islands
aswim in brimming seas, and that her hands were fluttering white doves
of peace. I found that I could maintain that sort of thing without
much trouble for an hour at a time.
I did not know it was the last good-by when I packed my bags and
gun-cases and left one frosty morning. I regret nothing, but am glad
it all happened just so. Her marriage to a clergyman in the
Establishment--a duke's second son in holy orders who enjoyed
considerable reputation as a cricketer--followed quickly, and I have
never seen her since. I was in love with that girl for at least a
month. It did me no harm, and I think she liked it herself.
I next went down before the slang of an American girl with teasing eyes
and amazing skill at tennis, whom I met at Oxford when she was a
student in Lady Margaret. Her name was Iris and she was possessed by
the spirit of Mischief. If you know aught of the English, you know
that the average peaches-and-cream English girl is not, to put it
squarely, exciting. Iris understood this perfectly and delighted in
doing things no girl had ever done before in that venerable town. She
lived at home--her family had taken a house out beyond Magdalen; and
she went to and from the classic halls of Lady Margaret in a dog-cart,
sometimes with a groom, sometimes without. When alone she dashed
through the High at a gait which caused sedate matrons to stare and
sober-minded fellows of the university to swear, and admiring
undergraduates to chuckle with delight. I had gone to Oxford to
consult a certain book in the Bodleian--a day's business only; but it
fell about that in the post-office, where I had gone on an errand, I
came upon Iris struggling for a cable-blank, and found one for her. As
she stood at the receiving counter, impatiently waiting to file her
message, she remarked, for the benefit, I believed, of a gaitered
bishop at her elbow: "How perfectly rotten this place is!"--and winked
at me. She was seventeen, and I was old enough to know better, but we
had some talk, and the next day she bowed to me in front of St. Mary's
and, the day after, picked me up out near Keble and drove me all over
town, and past Lady Margaret, and dropped me quite boldly at the door
of the Mitre. Shameful! It was; but at the end of a week I knew all
her family, including her father, who was bored to death, and her
mother, who had thought it a fine thing to move from Zanesville, Ohio,
to live in a noble old academic center like Oxford--that was what too
much home-study and literary club had done for her.
Iris kept the cables hot with orders for clothes, caramels and shoes,
while I lingered and hung upon her lightest slang and encouraged her in
the idea that education in her case was a sinful waste of time; and I
comforted her father for the loss of his native buckwheat cakes and
consoled her mother, who found that seven of the perfect English
servants of the story-books did less than the three she had maintained
at Zanesville. I lingered in Oxford two months, and helped them get
out of town when Iris was dropped from college for telling the
principal that the Zanesville High School had Lady Margaret over the
ropes for general educational efficiency, and that, moreover, she would
not go to the Established Church because the litany bored her.
Whereupon--their dependence on me having steadily increased--I got them
out of Oxford and over to Dresden, and Iris and I became engaged. Then
I went to Ireland on a matter of business, made an incendiary speech in
Galway, smashed a couple of policemen and landed in jail. Before my
father, with, I fear, some reluctance, bailed me out, Iris had eloped
with a lieutenant in the German army and her family had gone sadly back
to Zanesville.
This is the truth, and the whole truth, and I plead guilty to every
count of the indictment. Thereafter my pulses cooled and I sought the
peace of jungles; and the eyes of woman charmed me no more. When I
landed at Annandale and opened my portfolio to write _Russian Rivers_
my last affair was half a dozen years behind me.
Sobered by these reflections, I left the terrace shortly after eleven
and walked through the strip of wood that lay between the house and the
lake to the Glenarm pier; and at once matters took a turn that put the
love of woman quite out of the reckoning.