THE next day he didn't appear, but a letter did.
"I merely lied to you," he wrote. "All gamblers are liars. You should
have passed by on the other side."
Yes, that is what she should have done; she realised it now alone there
in the sunny parlour with his letter.
There was no chance for him; or, if there was, she had not been chosen as
the instrument of his salvation.
Slowly she turned her head and looked around her at her preparations--the
pitiful little preparations for him--the childish stage setting for the
scene of his salvation.
The spotless parlour had been re-dusted, cleaned, rubbed to its old-time
polish. Bible and prayer-book on the mahogany centre-table had been
arranged and re-arranged so many times that she no longer knew whether or
not her art concealed art, and was innocently fearful that he might
suspect the mise-en-scène and fight shy of her preparations for his
regeneration.
Again and again she had re-arranged the flowers and books and rumpled the
un-read morning newspaper to give to the scene a careless and casual
every-day allure; again and again she had straightened the rugs, then
tried them in less symmetrical fashion. She let the kitten in to give a
more home-like air to the room, but it squalled to go out, and she had to
release it.
Also, from the best spare room she had brought Holman Hunt's "Shadow of
the Cross"--and it had taxed her slender strength to hang it in place of
the old French mezzotint of Bacchus and Ariadne.
But the most difficult task was to disseminate among the stiff pieces of
furniture and the four duplicate sofa cushions an atmosphere of pleasant
and casual disorder--as though guests had left them where they were--as
though the rigid chairs were accustomed to much and intimate usage.
But the effect troubled her; every formal bit of furniture seemed to be
arranged as for an ambuscade; the cushions on the carved sofa sat in a
row, like dwarfs waiting; the secretary watched, every diamond pane a
glittering eye. And on the wall the four portraits of her parents and
grand-parents were behaving strangely, for she seemed never to be out of
range of their unwinking painted eyes.
From other rooms she had brought in ornaments, books, little odds and
ends--and the unaccustomed concentration of household gods caused her
much doubt and uncertainty, so fearful was she that his wise dark eyes
might smilingly detect her effort.
There had been much to do in the short time pending his arrival--the
gravel path to be raked, the lawn to be rolled and cut, the carefully
weeded flower beds to be searched for the tiniest spear of green which
did not belong there, the veranda to be swept again, and all the potted
plants to be re-arranged and the dead leaves and blossoms to be removed.
Then there were great sheafs of iris to gather; and that, and the cutting
of peonies and June roses, were matters to go about with thought and
discretion, so that no unsightly spaces in bloom and foliage should be
apparent to those dark, wise eyes of his that had looked on so many
things in life--so many, many things of which she knew nothing.
Also she was to offer him tea; and the baking of old-fashioned biscuits
and sweets was a matter for prayerful consideration. And Hetty, the hired
girl, had spent all the morning on her grand-mother's silver, and William
Pillsbury, executor of chores, had washed the doorstep and polished the
windows and swept the maple-pods and poplar silk from the roof-gutters,
and was now down on his knees with shears, trimming the grass under the
picket-fence.
And _he_ was not coming after all. He was never coming.
For a little while she failed to realise it; there was a numb sensation
in her breast, a dull confusion in her mind. She sat alone in the
parlour, in her pretty new gown, looking straight ahead of her, seeing
nothing--not even his letter in her hand.
And she sat there for a long while; the numbness became painful; the
tension a dull endurance. Fatigue came, too; she rested her head wearily
on the back of the chair and closed her eyes. But the tall clocks ticking
slowly became unendurable--and the odour of the roses hurt her.
Suddenly, through and through her shot a pang of fright; she had just
remembered that she had given him back his pistol.
On her feet now, startled as though listening, she stood, lips slightly
parted, and the soft colour gone from them. Then she went to the window
and looked down the road; and came back to stand by the centre-table, her
clasped hands resting on the Bible.
For a while fear had its way with her; the silent shock of it whitened
her face and left her with fair head bowed above her clasped hands.
Once or twice she opened the Bible and tried to understand, choosing what
she cared for most--reading of Lazarus, too. And she read about
miracles--those symbolic superfluities attributed to a life which in
itself was the greatest of all miracles.
And ever through the word of God glittered the memory of the pistol till
fear made her faint, and she rose, her hands against her breast, and
walked unsteadily out under the trees.
A bird or two had begun its sunset carol; the tree-trunks were stained
with the level crimson light. Far away her gaze rested on the blue hills.
Beyond them lay the accursed city.
The dull reiteration in her brain throbbed on unceasingly; she had given
him his pistol; he had lied to her; she had trusted him; he had lied; and
the accursed city lay beyond those hills--and he was there--with his
pistol; and he had lied to her--lied! lied! God help them both!
Across her clover fields the ruddy sunlight lay in broad undulating
bands, gilding blossom and curling trefoil. On every side of her the farm
stretched away over a rolling country set with woods; sweet came the
freshening air from the hills; she heard her collie barking at the
cattle along the pasture brook; a robin carolled loudly from the
orchard; orioles answered; gusts of twittering martins swept and soared
and circled the chimneys.
Erect, anguished hands clenched, she stood there, wide eyes seeing
nothing, and in her shrinking ears only the terrible reiteration of her
growing fears.
Then the level sun struck her body with a bar of light; all the world
around her smouldered rose and crimson. But after a little the shadows
fell through the fading light; and she turned her head, shivering, and
went back to the house--back to the room she had prepared for him, and
sat there watching the shapes of dusk invade it; the vague grey ghosts
that came crawling from corners and alcoves to gather at her feet and
wait and wait there with her for him who would never come into her life
again.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]