BASSETT had gone into the house too. As he crossed the living-room he
noticed its deserted quietude, in contrast to the noise and bustle that
had possessed it an hour ago.
It was a rich friendly room, comfortably homelike in spite of its size,
for it crossed the center of the house, its rear door opening on the
garden as the one opposite did on the path. It was spacious in height
as well as width, its walls rising two stories. Midway up a gallery
ran, on three sides of which the bedrooms opened. The fourth side, on
the seaward front, was flanked by a line of windows, great squares of
unsullied glass that looked over the garden and the amphitheater to
the uplands and the open ocean. There were tables here, raking wicker
chairs, and low settees with brilliant cushions, books lying about and
smokers’ materials. In the room below the character of a hunting lodge
had been suggested by mounted deer heads, Indian blankets, baskets of
cunning weave and animal skins on the floor. But it was an idealized
hunting lodge, with seats in which the body sank luxuriously, and
softly shaded lights. Round the deep-mouthed chimney the scent of wood
fires lingered, the fires of birch logs that leaped there when Gull
Island lay under storm and mist. The architect had not diminished the
effect of size and unencumbered space by stairs. The second story was
reached by two flights, one in the entrance hall, one in the kitchen
wing.
Bassett opened the door into the hall where again all was quiet, none
of the jarring accents that occasionally rose from the Stokes’ room.
He walked across the gleaming parquette to the library which he had
used for his office. There were no signs of the hunting lodge here--a
scholarly retreat, book-lined, with leather armchairs and lights
arranged for readers’ eyes, a place for delightful hours if one had
time to drowse and poke about on the shelves. Two long French windows
framed a view of the channel and Hayworth dreaming among its elms. He
went to one of the windows and looked out. The girls were still sitting
there, and, as he looked at them, an expression of infinite tenderness
lay like a light on his face. It was the light Shine had noticed,
allowed to break through clearly now that no one was there to see.
He sat down at the desk; there were letters for him to answer, addenda
of the performance to check up. He moved the papers, looked at them,
pushed them away, and, resting his forehead on his hands, relinquished
himself to a deep pervading happiness. Yesterday Anne had promised to
marry him.
His mind, held all day to his work, now flew to her--memories of her
face with the down-bent lids as he had asked her, and the look in her
eyes as they met his. Brave beautiful eyes with her soul in them. It
had been no light acceptance for her, it meant the surrendering of her
whole being, her life given over to him. He heard her voice again, and
his face sank into his hands, his heart trembling in the passion of its
dedication to her service. Anne, whom he had coveted and yearned for
and thought so far beyond his reach--his! He would be worthy of her,
and he would take such care of her, gird her round with his two arms, a
buckler against every ill that life might bring. She’d had such a hard
time of it, struggling up by herself with Joe hung round her neck like
a millstone.
At the memory of Joe he came to earth with a jarring impact. He dropped
his hands and stared at the papers, his brows bent in harassed thought.
Joe had broken the charm, obstructed the way to the paradise of dreams
like the angel with the flaming sword--though angel was not exactly the
word. Bassett had heard something that morning from Sybil which must
be looked into--something he could hardly believe. But Joe being what
he was you never could tell. It had been a mistake to bring him, with
Sybil a bunch of nerves and Stokes shunted unexpectedly into their
midst. And now he felt responsible, he’d have it out with Joe before he
left. One more disagreeable scene before they separated to-morrow, and
Bassett, like Mrs. Cornell, felt he’d thank Providence when they were
all on the train in the morning. Meantime he’d go over his papers while
he waited for the boy who had gone to his room to dress. The door was
open and he could hear him as he came down the stairs.
Anne was approaching the house, a slender crimson figure, her hair
in the sunset light shining like black lacquer. She was smiling to
herself--everything was so beautiful, not only Gull Island and this
hour of tranquil glory, but the mere fact of existing. Then she saw
Flora Stokes sitting on the balcony and realized that in this golden
world there were people to whom life was a dark and troublous affair.
She wanted to comfort Flora, let some of the happiness in her own heart
spill over into that burdened one. But she knew no way of doing it,
could only smile at the haggard face the woman lifted from her book.
“Oh, Mrs. Stokes, reading,” she cried as she ran up the steps. “How
can you read on such an evening as this?”
Flora Stokes said she had been walking about till she was tired, and
then glanced at the distant rock:
“You’ve left Sybil out there.”
There was no comfort or consolation that could penetrate Mrs. Stokes’
obsession. Anne could only reassure:
“She’s coming in soon. She just wanted to see the end of the sunset.”
She passed into the hall, sorry--oh, so sorry! But the library door
was open and she halted, poised birdlike for one glance. The man at
the desk had his back to her and she said nothing, yet he turned, gave
a smothered sound and jumped up. She shut her eyes as she felt his
arms go about her and his kisses on her hair, her senses blurred in a
strange ineffably sweet confusion of timidity and delight.
“Oh, Anne,” she heard his voice between the kisses. “I was waiting for
you.”
“Some one will see us,” she whispered. “Take care.”
She could feel the beating of his heart through his coat. Her hands
went up to his shoulders feeling along the rough tweed and with her
lids down-drooped she lifted her face.
“Darling,” he breathed, when the kiss was over, “I thought you were
never coming.”
“I had to stay with Sybil. She didn’t want to be alone.”
“But _you_ wanted to be here?”
“Just _here_,” she laid a finger on his breast and broke into
smothered, breathless laughter.
He laughed too and they drew apart, their hands sliding together and
interlocking. It was all so new, so bewilderingly entrancing, that they
did not know how to express it, the man staring wonder-struck, the
girl, with her quivering laughter that was close to tears, looking this
way and that, not knowing where to look.
“I ought to go,” she whispered. “They’ll be coming,” but made no move.
“Wait till they do.” Then with a sudden practical facing of realities,
“When will we be married?”
“Oh, not for ages! I’m not used to being engaged yet!”
“I am--I never was before but I must have had a talent for it, I’ve
taken to it so well.”
“Oh, Hugh!” Her laughter came more naturally, his with it. They were
like a pair of children, delighting in a little secret. “Won’t they be
surprised when they hear? Nobody has a suspicion of it.”
She looked so enchanting with her eyebrows arched in mischievous query
that he made a movement to clasp her again, and then came the creak of
an opening door from the floor above.
“Hist!” she held up a warning hand and slid away, her face, glancing
back for a last look, beautiful in its radiant joy.
Bassett moved to the stair-foot. Once again he had to come down to
earth with a bump. He passed his hand over his face as if to wipe off
an expression incompatible with disagreeable interviews. This must be
Joe.
It _was_ Joe, dressed for travel in knickerbockers and a Norfolk
jacket, a golf cap on the back of his head. He carried an overcoat
across his arm, in his hands a suit-case and a fishing-rod done up in
a canvas case. At the sight of Bassett he halted, and the elder man
noticed a change in his expression, a quick focusing to attention.
“Oh,” he said. “Want to see me, Bassett?”
“Yes, I want to speak to you before you go.”
Joe descended. Stopping a step above Bassett, he set down his baggage
and leaned on the banister, politely waiting.
Bassett spoke with lowered voice:
“I heard something this morning that I can hardly believe--an
accusation against you. That you’ve been using your position here to
act as one of the police spies who’ve been keeping tab on Sybil.”
The boy looked at him with impenetrable eyes and answered in the same
lowered key:
“Who told you that?”
“She did. She accuses you of having come here with that intention, got
the job knowing that no outsiders were to be allowed on the island.”
Bassett was certain he had paled under his tan, but his face retained a
masklike passivity.
“Sounds as if she might be losing her mind.”
“You deny it?”
The boy gave a scornful shrug:
“Of course I deny it. I shouldn’t think it would be necessary to ask
that. She’s had a down on me for some time--everybody’s seen it,
snapping and snarling at me for nothing--and I suppose she wants to get
an excuse for it.”
“She says she came upon you examining a letter of hers, holding it up
to the light. And three days ago she found you in her room looking over
the papers in her desk.”
“Ah!” he made a gesture of angry contempt. “It would make a person
sick--examining her letters! I was looking through the mail bag to see
if there was anything for me. If I took up one of hers by mistake does
that prove I was examining it?”
“How about the other thing?”
“Being in her room? Yes, I was there. I went in to get a stamp. I had
an important letter to go when Gabriel took over the mail and it was
time for him. All the rest of you were out. Her room was next to mine
and I went in. I never thought anything about it, no more than I would
have thought about going into Anne’s or yours or anybody else’s. She’s
nutty, I tell you. You can’t trust her word. And if she says I’m hired
to spy on her she’s a damned----”
He stopped. Basset’s eye was steady on him in a cold command he knew.
There was the same cold quality in the director’s voice:
“If the position Sybil’s in has made her suspicious, that’s all right.
I’d like to believe it was the case. But if any of us--supposedly
her friends--had inserted themselves in here to carry on police
surveillance, using _me_ to get them in--well, I’d not think _that_ all
right.”
Joe leaned over the banister. His control was shaken, his voice
hoarsely urgent:
“You got to be fair, Bassett, and because you’re sorry for her is no
reason to set her word over mine. It’s _not_ true. Don’t you believe
me?”
Bassett did not answer for a moment. He wanted to believe and he
doubted; he thought of Joe’s desire to come, of the reward:
“I guess you know, Joe, you can trust me to be fair, but I’m not going
to commit myself till I know. It won’t be hard to do that. I can find
out when I get back to New York. And take this from me--if what Sybil
says is true I’m done with you. No more help from me, no more work in
any company I manage. And I fancy the whole theatrical profession will
feel the same way.” He drew back from the stair-foot. The disagreeable
interview was over. “There’s no good talking any more about it.
Accusations and denials don’t get us anywhere. We’ll let it rest till
I’ve made my inquiries. I’ll say good-by now and hope you’ll have a
good time in the woods.”
He turned and walked up the hall to his room on the garden front next
the Stokes’. Joe gathered his luggage and went the opposite way, down
the hall and into the big central apartment. He stepped with gingerly
softness as if he were creeping away from something he feared might
follow him. At the entrance door he set down his luggage and as he bent
over it a whispered stream of curses flowed from his lips. He cursed
Bassett and his luck, but Sybil with a savage variety of epithet and
choice of misfortune, for she had undone him. Straightening up he
looked blankly about--his inner turmoil was such he hardly knew where
he was--and he retraced his steps, seeking the seclusion of his room,
went up the stairs in noiseless vaulting strides like a frightened
spider climbing to its web.
V
ANNE had taken off her costume and slipped into a negligée to do her
packing comfortably, and then decided she had better bid good-by to
Joe first. Bidding good-by was not an obligation between them, but
she had to get the key of his trunk--it was going back to New York
with hers--and her heart in its new warmth yearned to him, her only
relation. She wanted to tell him her great secret, see an answering
joy leap into his face, for he thought more of Bassett than anybody,
and he’d be so surprised to hear that Anne, her charms held at a low
valuation, had won such a prize.
Her room was the first on the left side of the gallery, Joe’s next to
Sybil’s on the land front of the house. She passed the long line of
closed doors, voices coming from behind Mrs. Cornell’s, and reaching
Joe’s, knocked. A “Come in,” uninvitingly loud and harsh, answered her
and she entered. Joe was sitting in a low armchair, bent forward, his
hands holding a cane with which he was tapping on the floor. The bright
square of the window was behind him, framing rosy sky and the green
shore-line. He looked up to see who it was; then, without greeting or
comment, drooped his head and went on lightly striking the cane on
the carpet as if he were hammering in a nail and it required all his
attention. Anne felt dashed, his manner might have been the same to
an intruding stranger. She asked about the key, and he nodded to the
bureau where it lay. The trunk was packed and locked? To that he gave
an assenting grunt, then raised his head and looked at her--what have
you come here for, the look said.
It was not a reception to encourage confidences and she stood
uncomfortably regarding him, trying to find something to say that would
dispel his somber ill humor.
“You’re all ready? Where’s your luggage?”
“Down by the door. Is there anything else you want to know?”
“_I_ don’t want to know, I was thinking of you. You’re always late, and
it’s different here with only one way to get ashore and Gabriel never
willing to wait.”
He made no answer, continuing his play with the cane. She knew that
something was wrong and sat down on the arm of a chair, uneasy,
wondering what it was:
“I’m glad you’ve managed this holiday. And it’s so jolly having Jimmy
Travers, he’s such a sport. You’ll meet him to-night at Bangor. At the
Algonquin Inn--wasn’t that the name of it?”
“Um.”
“I want to be sure because if any important mail should come for you I
could send it there to meet you on your way back. Algonquin Inn--I’ll
remember that. Then off to-morrow morning--it’ll be lovely in the woods
now.”
“Any place would be lovely after this beastly hole.”
“Beastly hole! I thought you liked it!”
“Did you? Take another guess.”
“You expected to like it. You wanted to come.”
He made no answer, but slanting his body sidewise with an air of
ostentatious endurance, took out his watch and looked at it. She
ignored the hint--you couldn’t be sensitive with Joe--and leaning
toward him asked:
“What’s the matter, Joe?”
“Matter--with what?”
“You! Has anything happened?”
“Oh, no, nothing’s happened.” His words were mincingly soft. “What
_could_ happen with such a charming lot of people and Miss Saunders
playing the star rôle in the performance and out.”
It was Sybil then--he’d been working himself into a bad temper over
her treatment of him. Anne had thought it odd he had not mentioned it
before:
“You’re angry with Sybil, and I don’t think she has been very nice
to you. I’ve noticed it, especially the last three days and this
afternoon when we were sitting out there on the rock I tried to make
her tell me why.”
He raised his head; the profile sharply defined against the window
showed a working muscle in the cheek: “And did she tell you?”
“No, she didn’t seem to want to talk about it. She changed the subject.”
“How considerate!”
“There’s no sense getting annoyed about it because I don’t think she
has any reason. You have to make excuses for her. She’s gone through
this awful experience and her nerves are all wracked to pieces. You
have to be patient and take her as a sort of afflicted person--”
He dashed the cane down and jumped to his feet in a volcanic explosion
of rage:
“I don’t take her that way. I take her for what she is, a damned lying
hypocrite.”
“Joe!” She was amazed, not so much at the words, as at the suddenness
of the outburst and the contorted passion of his face.
“She thinks she can treat me any way she wants and get away with it.
Well, she’ll find her mistake, she’s taken the wrong turning this time.
She takes me for a yellow dog she can kick whenever she feels like it.
But I got teeth, I can bite. Patient--be patient--God, I’d like to
wring her neck, the damned----.”
He used an epithet that brought Anne to her feet, breathing battle:
“Don’t dare to say that of my friend, Joe Tracy.”
He stood in front of her, hump-shouldered, with outthrust jaw, brows
drawn low over eyes gleaming like a cat’s. She had never seen him look
like that; he seemed a stranger, a horrible stranger, and she drew
away, aghast at the revelation of a being so sinisterly unfamiliar.
Her look brought him back to self-control. He jerked his head up, ran
a hand over his hair, and turned away to the window. Standing there he
said:
“Well, I take that back. I didn’t mean to say it. But she’s made me
mad; I think she’d make anybody.”
The tone, surly still, had a placating quality; it was as near an
apology as Joe could ever come. She felt immeasurably relieved for
he had frightened her. To see the family cat, whose vagaries of
temperament she knew by heart, suddenly transformed into a tiger, had
given her a shock. She accepted his amends without comment, but she
could not resist a sisterly admonition:
“If you’d only stop getting mad over small things you’d find life so
much easier.”
He laughed:
“Good advice from little sister! It doesn’t cost anything and it’s the
correct _ingenue_ pose.”
He turned from the window smiling, Joe at his most amiable. If he
had met her this way she would have poured out her secret. But her
high mood had fallen and besides he wanted her to go--he said he had
a letter to write yet. Lounging toward her he put his hands on her
shoulders, gave her a light kiss on the cheek and pushed her toward the
door.
On her way back along the gallery she recalled his face in that
moment of rage with troubled question. She wondered if there was more
disturbing him than she knew--it was an extraordinary exhibition of
anger for such a cause. Also she had not felt sure that his change of
mood was genuine, his laugh had rung false, and when he had laid his
hands on her shoulders she had felt their coldness through the thin
stuff of her negligée. She heaved a sigh of relief at the thought that
he was going. In his present mood there was no knowing what clashes
there might be, and it was the last evening, and there would be a full
moon, and she and Bassett would walk like lovers under its magic light.
When her door had closed, the gallery and living-room became as quiet
as though the house were unoccupied. Sybil, approaching it, heard no
sound of voices, a fact that reassured her, for the long day had tired
her and she had no mind for talk. She was coming in by the balcony when
she saw Flora Stokes sitting there reading and deflected her course
toward the path that skirted the building’s front. If Flora noticed
her she made no sign, her eyes glued to her book, and Sybil, stepping
softly, for she dreaded the woman’s resentful glances, passed along to
the entrance of the living-room. The place was deserted and she stopped
on the threshold for a last look at the sky’s fading splendors.
Across the depths of the room the door into the hall opened, but so
gently that she did not hear it. Stokes made this noiseless entrance in
the hope that she might be there, and now, seeing his hope fulfilled,
closed the door as carefully, standing against it watching her.
If the conventional garb of the street was not as becoming to his
darkly Byronic style as the trappings of the Duke, he was still
unusually handsome. A figure of distinction in its lean grace, with
proud hawk features and the deep-set melancholy eyes that the matinée
girl loves. Even his pallor had charm in their opinion, adding to his
romantic suggestion. Gull Island sun and breezes had left no trace upon
it; his face against the background of the door was a yellowish white.
Seeing that she did not turn he pronounced her name. At that she
wheeled, lightning-quick, and came forward from beneath the deep jut of
the gallery assuming as unconcerned a manner as she could.
“Lovely evening,” she said as she advanced. “It’s been hard to come in.”
“Evidently from the length of time you stayed out there. I’ve been
waiting for you.”
It was not a propitious beginning, especially as he still stood against
the door as if intending to bar her exit.
“I’m going up-stairs to dress now.”
“There’s plenty of time. You can give me a few minutes. I’ve something
I want to say to you.”
“Oh, Aleck!” She stopped with an air of weary expostulation. “_Don’t_
say anything more. _Don’t_ begin that dreadful subject. I’m sick of it,
I loathe it and _can’t_ you see it isn’t any use?”
He went on as if he hadn’t heard her:
“I’ve been trying for days, ever since I came here. And you keep
avoiding me, always having some one with you. Now we’ll be going
to-morrow, we may not have another chance, and I must see you and tell
you”--he stopped and looked at the gallery. “Did I hear a step up
there?”
She had heard nothing and thought it odd that he should be so suddenly
cautious. Discretion had been the last quality he had heretofore shown.
“I _have_ avoided you and I’m going to continue doing it. Please move
away from the door. It’s silly to stand in front of it for I can go
round by the garden, but I’m tired and I don’t want to.”
He came forward, speaking as he advanced.
“This isn’t what you think. I’m done with that. You’ve made me
understand, you’ve got it across, Sybil. I’m not going to bother you
any more with that subject you loathe and think so dreadful. But I
can’t help loving you and wanting to help you.” She gave an exasperated
gesture and made a move to pass him. As she did so, he said: “I’ve
heard something of Jim Dallas.”
She stopped as if all animating force had been stricken out of her, a
“What?” expelled on a caught breath.
“Just before I left town I met an actor who says he saw him.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Why should I lie? What do I gain by it? I swore the fellow to secrecy
and came up here to tell you and I’ve been trying----”
She broke in: “Was he sure? Where was it?”
The change in her manner would have crushed the hope in any man.
Shunning him like a leper, she now drew close and laid her hand on his
arm.
“I can’t tell you here. It’s too dangerous, too many people coming and
going.”
“It _was_ Jim?”
“It _was_. It’s quite a story, more than just seeing him. But we’ve got
to get somewhere away from all these damned doors----”
One of them opened--that into the hall behind them. They heard it and
wheeled round, faces sharp-set in defensive interrogation. It was
Flora Stokes. She rested on the threshold looking at them, and Stokes,
his senses more alert than the girl’s, withdrew his arm from her clasp.
“Oh, Flora,” he said, his voice supremely light and easy. “Were you
looking for me?”
Mrs. Stokes said no, she had come to put her book back. She walked
slowly to a table and placed her book on the corner. The room was very
still as she did this. Stokes, his hands deep in his pockets, moved
his head, following her progress as if it roused his curiosity. The
girl stood without a sound, the scene passing under her eyes with a
mirage-like unreality.
“It seems I’ve intruded,” said Mrs. Stokes, each syllable meticulously
clear and precise. “But if you want to be alone I should think you’d
have chosen another place.”
“Having chosen this is a pretty good proof we didn’t want to be alone,”
retorted her husband.
She gave a light jeering sound of disbelief and walked to the entrance.
On the sill she turned and looked at them with smoldering eyes:
“Don’t be afraid I’ll stay. I’m going for a walk on the front of the
island. That’s as far away as I can get; I’d go farther if I could.”
She passed out of the door and Stokes turned to the girl:
“There--that’s what I was afraid of. Some of the rest of them may come
in at any minute. We’ve got to get out of here, some place outside.”
“The Point--the summer-house. I’ll go down there now--you follow me.”
She ran to the entrance, he at her heels. Walking leisurely up the
path to the summer-house was Shine. She threw out her hands with a
distracted gesture and struck a foot on the floor in a frantic stamp.
Stokes smothered an oath. “Tell me here,” she implored, but he answered
with an imperative shake of the head.
“The garden.” She was half-way across the room before he caught her up,
and this time it was he who laid his hand on her arm:
“Sybil, have some sense. You’ll get us in wrong every way. You don’t
want any of these people to see us out there whispering together.
That’s just the place they’ll go while they’re waiting round for
supper. Listen now, get a hold on yourself. Jim’s safety is more
important than your anxiety. That photographer chap’s just strolling
round killing time; he’ll move on from there presently. Go up to your
room and wait. You can see the Point from your window. If he’s gone by
seven, come down and go along to the summer-house. I’ll watch too and
I’ll meet you there.”
She opened her lips for a last protest, then evidently seeing there
was nothing else for it, gave out a groaning “All right” and left the
room. He followed her, saw her mount the stairs, and walked out on the
balcony. It was exquisitely still, the colors paling, the pines black
and motionless as if painted on the orange sky. He could see the figure
of his wife moving slowly toward the ocean bluffs. A newspaper lay on a
table near him and he took it up, slumping down in his chair as one who
relinquishes himself to a regained interest, but he did not read.