"You remember you were telling me about it. I happened to see it in a
window." She spoke a little hysterically, and began wishing she had not
come down. "Only think--in a town like Frankfort, of all places! I was
so surprised that I walked right in and bought it! I--I expect to enjoy
it very much," she ended miserably.
Leslie whittled, still stubbornly taciturn. If he would ask about
Lynndal--if he would only show _some_ kind of emotion: anything would
be better than this awful silence. Finally, since he thus forced her
hand, Louise reminded him that she had previously intimated a knowledge
of her sister's whereabouts.
"_Do_ you know where she is?" he looked at her with a furtive flash of
interest.
"I think she's gone to the tree-house."
"Alone?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Long ago?"
"No, not so very long."
Leslie began humming, and shifted restlessly.
"I think you'd find her there, Les, if you wanted to find her. But
if...." She left it dumbly in the air.
Still the boy hummed, his eyes never leaving the spar.
"Are you two going for a hike, or something?"
He stirred and looked up quickly at a little red squirrel chattering on
a bough above them. "We're going to cut sticks for the roast tonight."
"Is there to be a roast?"
"The mid-summer Assembly Roast," he explained, a little pointedly.
There seemed no reason for one's forgetting so important an event as
the Assembly Roast.
"Oh, yes," she replied. "I'd forgotten all about it, for the moment.
Will it be over beyond the lighthouse?"
"Yes, clear around the Point."
"Sticks, you mean, for marshmallows?" How obvious it all sounded!
"Marshmallows and wienies," he told her. "There will have to be at
least three dozen sticks, so I guess I'd better...."
The little squirrel chattered brazenly on above them. A locust was
shrilling somewhere across the dazzling sand. She told herself she had
given him every chance.
"You mustn't let me keep you, Les."
"Oh, that's all right."
She had given him every chance. He did not care, after all. She had
been deceived in him. Oh, the injustice of it all!
"I must go find Mr. Barry," she said. "He'll wonder what's become of
me!" And she forced a brief little laugh. "It will be lots of fun. I'd
forgotten all about the mid-summer roast! I'll--we'll see you there...."
"Yes," he answered.
Their eyes suddenly met. She flushed, and her throat ached. He turned
slowly away.
"Good-bye, Les."
"Good-bye," he answered.
Louise reëntered the cottage by the back door. Eliza was singing over
her work at the sink. And Leslie, smiling in a kind of baffling way,
strolled off, still whittling the broken spar.
And Eros skipped beside him. Eros knew well enough where the tree-house
was. He didn't have to be shown, for as a matter of fact he had helped
construct it, up in the crotch of a giant oak: had subsequently climbed
nimbly to the tiny empire of its seclusion in the interest of many a
summer twain. Yes, Eros knew the way quite well. However, for the sheer
sake of companionship, he chose to skip along by the side of a lad who
was whittling a broken spar and smiling in a kind of baffling way.
8
"The Queen of Tahulamaji," admitted Miss Whitcom, "was really a most
amazing creature."
"I should think it likely."
They were sitting together on the rustic bench. At first he had been on
the rustic bench alone. She had flung herself in the hammock. But the
interest of their talk had brought her first to a sitting posture, then
to a standing posture, and finally to a rustic bench posture.
"Ah, but you mustn't think just because she was amazing that she wasn't
also perfectly human--sometimes almost desperately so, O'Donnell!"
"Yes, I suppose so. I can somehow picture her--especially the desperate
times."
"Well, of course she did have her eccentricities. For instance, her
temper. To the last it remained most alarmingly and deliciously
undependable."
"To the last?"
"Ah, yes--poor Tessie!"
"Tessie?"
"I always called her that. It wasn't strictly Tahulamajian, but she
adored the name."
"So the Queen is dead?"
"Yes, Queen Tess died early in the spring. She was terribly old, but
game right up to the last minute. You never saw such gameness. The
funeral was immensely impressive."
"Whole populace turned out, of course?"
"Ra_ther_. Ostracism threatened against any who stayed away without a
valid excuse! And they carried her along, all dressed up in her robes
of state, and even with a crown on. Poor, dear Tessie! How often she
used to say to me in private, when the mats were all snug over the
doors: 'You know there are times,' she'd say, 'when I have my doubts
about all this sovereign divinity business. It's down in the state
books that I'm one of the direct line, descended from Mentise-huhu and
the gods of the Sea Foam. But there are times when I have my doubts,'
she used to say. 'There are times when I seem to be just Tessie, and
between you and me, I'm coming to suspect that there never were any
gods of the Sea Foam at all!'"
O'Donnell smiled at her look of momentary abstraction. What a life
Marjory's had been--what a life! Here he found her, at last, in the
heart of a religious colony. But at one time she had sold bonds in
Wall Street; she had been an agent for a Pacific steamship line; she
had been a political organizer in the North-west; and she had once
served as associate editor of a newspaper. Yes, she had always struck
O'Donnell--himself so simple and homely of nature--as most violently
revolutionary. He remembered how, in the early days, she used to march
in suffrage parades. She had taken up Socialism and dropped it; had
smoked; and he distinctly recalled her having used, in her time, quite
sporty language. Once she had had something to do with the races, and
had worn a derby. And yet....
"Well," he mused, "after all it's the same Marjory."
"You think so?" She was amused.
"Yes, the same old Marjory. I wonder if there ever was a time when you
weren't 'advanced.'"
"You call _me_ advanced? My dear fellow, I must refer you--"
"I know, I know," he protested. "You forget I've come to know them all.
Perhaps," he added slyly, "I'm growing just a little advanced myself!"
"You?"
"Can you imagine?"
"Oh, well--"
"In my old age--fancy that!"
"True, I'd forgotten the poet."
"Well," he admitted, "one lives and learns."
"We all do that, you know."
"Oh, yes."
"Well, but do you mean we've nothing left to quarrel about? Has it
really come to _such_ a pass?"
"I do." He spoke almost solemnly. It was a little like the "I do" of
the marriage rite.
"Barrett! Good heavens! What's the world coming to?"
"I don't know," he replied naïvely. "I only know there are no grounds
left. I've capitulated, you see, at every point."
"Tut, tut!"
"_Every point!_" he insisted. No compromise would do. It might amaze
her, might snatch the ground from under her feet; he would admit, at
last, no compromise.
She grew whimsical, then a new earnestness creeping into her voice:
"You know," she said, "I've come to suspect some of this talk of being
'advanced.' I mean"--for she felt his enquiring gaze--"I've come at
length to suspect that in just going ahead.... Barrett, for heaven's
sake help me out!" For once in her life--and it was surely a portentous
symptom--Miss Whitcom was groping.
"Well," she went on at last, still speaking earnestly, if fumblingly,
"I'm not sure I _can_ express at all what I feel. It's what I've been
coming to feel more and more--no doubt a gradual development up out of
the cocksure attitude of one's--Barrett, I've begun using a dreadful
and ruthless word--one's immaturity ...!" She tossed her head. "It
doesn't mean I don't still believe in all the fine, big movements. You
know"--her voice for a moment grew almost tender--"I always looked upon
myself as one of the first of the 'new' women. I wasn't going at things
blindly. I was always following an ideal, Barrett, even when the
things I did seemed most wild and inexplicable. But as I look back I
seem to have been following strange roads in an effort to reach it! How
strange! And now--yes, only fancy, as you say: in one's old age!--I'm
afraid I see in a way that 'progress' can be overdone. That is, I've
come to see that progress is something you can't _force_. Yet there
have to be pioneers in the world, don't there, Barrett? People who are
reckless, and pay the price, and aren't afraid of going too far....
Yes, I realize that, as I've always realized it. But oh, Barrett,
Barrett--I'm afraid I'm getting to be very, very selfish. I've been a
pioneer so long, and after all I don't quite want to be a pioneer to
the very end of my days. I--I somehow feel I want to stop being one
before--oh, Barrett, before it's quite too _late_ ...!"
"I think," said O'Donnell slowly, his voice just a little shaken, "if
the time has come for plain speaking like this, you'd better let me
hold your hand. Do you mind?"
"Listen to him!" she said, in one of her richest tones of banter.
All the same, she let him have it.
While these important events were proceeding, Louise, who had not gone
to find Mr. Barry, after all, but who had returned to her room instead,
slept a little. She was unused to such early rising, and she had been
through a great deal since dawn.
She slept, and had a dream. She dreamed that she and Leslie were to be
married. She seemed to be very much excited, and to be surrounded by a
crowd of indefinite persons, some of them friends she now possessed,
and some of them friends she had known in her early girlhood. And all
the while she was happily arguing: "I know I'm a little bit older,
but we love each other so much that just a mere couple of years don't
count."
Waking with a start to problems more sinister than merely that
involving a conventional disagreement of ages, Louise perceived that
it had drawn to the golden midst of afternoon. Lynndal was waiting for
her. As the curious, almost hypnotic quality of the dream wore off,
she responded to another flash of new purpose. The dream still haunted
and oppressed her; at first it had made her sad; but as it faded into
a renewed appreciation of that humiliating conversation beside the
driftwood shed, a mood of rebellion came upon her.
She tossed her head haughtily: Leslie should be allowed to make no
further difference to her. She would thrust him entirely out of her
life. He ought never really to have entered it. No, she shouldn't
have given herself to Leslie, even temporarily. It had produced an
unpleasant situation, and afforded him an opportunity now to fling
all her kindness back in her face. He had, indeed, treated her
shamefully--not at all as he had treated her earlier in the day. At
dawn.... But she murmured angrily: "This is the return one gets for
trying to be nice to a man!"
The new mood inclined her, in a subtle way, toward Lynndal--as abruptly
as it had hardened her heart against Leslie. The emotion of the moment
illuminated the former in an almost rosy manner. She began thinking of
Lynndal warmly and romantically--as she had thought of him during those
long months when they were far apart. Her attitude again became the
attitude she had maintained throughout the period of their increasingly
affectionate correspondence. And the sense of his nearness seemed no
longer to distract or terrify her. Excitement stirred in her breast.
It leapt to her eyes and trembled upon her lips. She had never loved
Lynndal so almost tempestuously. Strong emotion of this sort always
had a beautifying effect upon Miss Needham. Her face glowed as she
encouraged the rekindling passion. She fanned the flame of her love
for Lynndal, and at the same time a soft sense of steadfastness and
assurance snuffed out the dismal quandary which had wracked and
tortured her soul from the moment she saw him up on the deck of the
steamer. Some mad whim, she argued feverishly, had filled her with a
panic of indecision and dread; but that was gone now. She whipped the
purging passion into new and fantastic fervour. Her laugh had a touch
of wildness in it. Even Richard had never moved her like this!
Suddenly, a little chill seized her heart. What if already it were too
late? What if, by her coldness and aloofness, she had already created
in Lynndal's heart a havoc which could not be rescinded? Was it not
wholly conceivable that she had killed his love for her? Had she not
shown herself perverse, cruel, and irredeemably fickle? Perhaps now the
tables would be turned, and he would draw away from her, even as she
had shrunk from him. The thought had a maddening influence: she felt
momentarily faint and distracted. Then a new energy of determination
blazed in her eyes. It must _not_ be too late. She _must_ win him back,
however far her wretched conduct may have driven him.
Louise dressed with elaborate care, giving heed to every eloquent
detail of her toilette. She tore off the brooch Richard had given her
and flung it into her jewel box with a gesture of gay scorn. No more
toying and trifling! She was ready now to give herself completely and
for all time--the more ready because of that uneasy little tremor of
doubt lest she had killed his love. Yes, it was a wonderful moment--a
moment so packed with the frenzy of giving that there remained no
other thought at all in her mind. She lived for the moment alone. She
made herself radiant for Lynndal, the emotion which swayed her growing
more and more riotous. She surrendered herself to it. He was waiting
for her. And she went down to him hopefully, wistfully, yet withal
triumphantly.
"Which way?" asked Lynndal as they descended the short bluff and
reached the hard, surf-packed shore.
"I don't care," she laughed up at him. "Shall we go this way?"
It didn't matter to Barry. All ways were equal to him, since he was
really and truly in love and spent no great amount of attention upon
the scenery. He looked at her adoringly. His quiet eyes were dazzled.
They strolled along close beside the little waves. It was rather a
picture. She was charmingly gowned, and carried a small plum parasol.
"Let me take your coat, dear," he suggested.
She gave him the light silk wrap, and he carried it on his arm, crooked
almost pathetically for the purpose.
"I don't wonder you like it up here," he said, looking off over the
sparkling water. "If we had this in the centre of the desert...."
"I suppose it would make a difference." All at once she pictured the
desert. She pictured herself living in the midst of the desert with
Lynndal.
Then the dry-farming expert went on to explain, at some length, just
what would happen were this sea to be transported to the parched heart
of Arizona. The words began falling a little dully on her ears. She was
vaguely troubled. But she could not tell just why it should be so.
There was a silence. They walked along slowly side by side. A wave of
happiness stole upon the man; his hand, encountering hers, closed over
it tenderly.
She caught her breath a little. "Lynndal," she cautioned, "you
mustn't...."
But he clung to her hand. He had come so far! And again she seemed to
hear those terrible words booming in her ears: "You are mine, all mine!"
Slowly his arm crept round her waist. There was nothing overwhelming
about the action: Barry was not an overwhelming man, and had not
an overwhelming way with him. His was, rather, a kind of gentle,
furtive passion, which displayed itself in a very slight trembling, an
occasional queer huskiness of voice.
All at once Louise grew alarmed. It seemed to her that a terrible and
inevitable moment had come. She wasn't entirely prepared. _She must
have more time ...!_
"Please take your arm away, Lynndal," she said tensely.
"But why, dear?"
"Please! The cottagers...."
"But Louise, dear, there isn't a cottage in sight." They had, indeed,
proceeded by this time well around the Point. "There's no one to see,
and besides...."
She glanced up shyly. His face was kind. His eyes were pleading and
full of quiet reassurance. Did he suspect a little the turmoil within
her? There was no reason why his arm shouldn't be about her; yet her
mind went on groping. It was like being in a thick wood. Could she give
herself to him entirely? Could she give herself to _anyone_ entirely?
"Louise, I love you," he murmured, bending down so that his lips were
close to her cheek.
She trembled. But she told herself that he had come to her out of the
desert; that he was her lover; and that she must give herself to him
without any more restraint. Why had she led him on and on if she didn't
intend to give herself fully at last?
"Louise, dearest.... Louise!"
"Yes, Lynndal...."
"I love you so much!"
The old panic surged again, but she fought it back. "For ever and
ever--nobody but me...." Yet there were so many others.... Chaos again
enveloped the girl.
"Won't you kiss me?"
His arms were adoringly about her. His lips came close to hers. It was
time, now, to give herself. She raised her lips.
They kissed.
But a great cry was in her heart: "I _can't_!" It was almost as though
he had heard it, for he let her slip way; and she stood there before
him, her head lowered, her hands desperately covering her face.
Louise thought blindly of Richard--what their first kiss had been like
...! And then she remembered how, afterward, she had longed for death.
With what completeness the situation now was reversed! Now she was
loved, and it was she who would break her lover's heart. Yet still the
same swift longing for death....
They walked on slowly. Barry's head was lowered. Finally he asked
thickly: "Don't you love me, then?"
She bent her head lower and could not answer. The fault was her own,
and he must suffer for it. Yet stealthy colour crept back into her
cheeks; her mood grew muddy and subtly defiant. Was not he making _her_
suffer?
It wasn't, she blindly felt, so much that she didn't love him, as that,
strangely and tragically, he must be all to her--and she could not face
it.
How strange it was! How unpremeditated and utterly tragic! In his
pocket huddling against the little box with its precious prisoner, was
a letter in which the amplest and most ardent affection was expressed.
It was a letter which expressed an earnest desire for his coming--so
eager. Barry was bewildered. What did such lightning-swift changes of
heart signify? Had she only _imagined_ herself in love? What was this
that had come to him? Had he come out of the desert for nothing after
all? Was all the promise of new life sheer illusion?
They walked on a little way and then turned slowly back.