own methods with each member of the clan, and it was a rare thing for
one of them to venture upon criticism of Judith. The colonel had been,
as he said, a little overcome by Edward's hospitality.
IX
A FEMININE PROCEDURE
But Judith did not go up-stairs.
After nearly an hour spent in the drawing-room, she left her elder
cousins engrossed in whist, saying that she was going up until time for
supper. She went to the foot of the stairs, then half-way up, to where
the stairs made a turn, and stood for a time, listening. Everything was
quiet above. In the dining-room the men were still talking, and the
drawing-room was silent except for an occasional remark. Smothered by
the intervening walls, the music and the stir in the ballroom seemed
distant.
Judith listened to the conclusion of a waltz, then to the chatter on the
veranda--until it was drawn back again into the ballroom by the less
rhythmic measure of a square dance. Then she crept down, went quickly
through the hall and out to the veranda.
Baird was there, waiting for her. He sprang up from a bench. "I hoped
you'd come!" he said. "I didn't like to go in and ask for you."
They stood for a moment. "Have you been enjoying yourself?" Judith
asked.
"No, you didn't come back."
Judith laughed softly. "You are not polite to my party, suh."
"Never mind." He touched her bare arm. "Where can I get something to put
around you?"
"My cape is in the hall--behind the stairs--and my overshoes.... It is
so warm--we might go down to the walk."
"Down to the terraces," Baird said with the quickness of the man alert
to every advantage.
Possibly Judith had the terraces in mind, but she demurred. "Oh, no--the
ground is too damp."
Baird's answer was to dive into the hall. When he came out he had
Judith's cape on his arm and a pair of overshoes in each hand. He held
up the larger pair. "I've jumped some one's claim!... Think any one will
want these before we get back?"
"They'll certainly not guess where to look for them.... You know how to
surmount a difficulty, don't you?" She had planned for this adventure,
and her cheeks were warm.
"By helping myself to some one else's belongings--if there is no other
way.... Sit down and let me make sure you will be dry."
Baird had also planned for an hour on the terraces, and was elated. He
knelt and put on Judith's overshoes with much care, a caressing clasp
for each foot before he planted it on the floor. "They are so small," he
said. "There are not many women whose feet are kissable." Then dashed
by his temerity, he added quickly, "You must descend on me if I
talk--nonsense. I am apt to be forward--I need training badly. I'm in
your hands, you know."
Judith thought, as she looked down at his massive jaw with its
suggestion of animal force, that undoubtedly he spoke from much
predatory experience; his air of deference sat oddly on him; he was most
attractive when presumptuous. Her reflections caused her a pang.
Retrospective jealousy over affairs that were none of her concern? She
shrugged mentally. She was foolish! For the first time in her life she
was deliberately tampering with forces which she knew were dangerous.
She thought it best to say gravely, "You are a little--assured, Mr.
Baird."
"I'm afraid I am," he assented ruefully; then added with native
shrewdness and candor combined, "I suppose because I've usually found it
paid."
"I suppose it does--with some people," Judith returned with instant
hauteur. She was glad he could not see her flush.
Baird got to his feet. "May I help you with your cape?" he asked so
humbly that the prick of his previous remark ceased to smart. Why take
offense at his candor; his respect for her was apparent enough.
She regained her usual manner as Baird helped her down the steps and, on
reaching the walk, dropped her arm, and vented his discomfort by
criticizing the moon. "The stars are doing their best--why doesn't the
silly thing choose the end of the month to be full in?" he complained.
"I'm afraid you will stumble."
Judith did stumble a few moments afterward, and, as a matter of course,
Baird took possession of her arm. Judith judged that he had been
sufficiently rebuked and also that she had proved that she needed
guidance and yet was not eager to accept it, a truly feminine procedure.
And Baird was evidently bent upon gaining the terraces without offending
her by too much urgency. They had come to the verge of the first
terrace, and he tested the ground. "It's not muddy," he announced. "The
sod is too heavy.... Shan't we go down?"
"I ought not to go so far away--some one will be wanting me," Judith
objected.
"That is one reason you should go," Baird said decidedly. "You've been
on duty all evening. Come, shunt it all for a few minutes." Baird had
regained his assurance; it never deserted him for long.
"I should like to," Judith confessed, and her sigh was genuine enough.
"Of course you would. Isn't there a bench down there--somewhere?"
"On the edge of the last terrace--under those two cedars."
"Let's go to it--please, Wonder-woman! They'll all be out after that
dance and I won't have a moment with you. Come!"
He pleaded a little masterfully, Judith thought, but as long as he did
not suspect that it was his forcefulness that attracted her, all was
well. "I suppose I can hear down there, if any one called," she said
doubtfully.
"Certainly you can."
They went down to where the two cedars loomed, a dark mass, and groped
their way to the bench. It was dark beneath the trees and quite dry.
Below them was a hollow and beyond it a steep slope crowned by a group
of trees, their outlines distinct against the sky. In every direction
but this the country dropped away from the house, affording views for
miles. Except for the music in the house behind them and the occasional
snort or stamp of a horse in the stables, it was very still.
"This is splendid," Baird said, "but are you warm enough? You have
nothing on your head--there's a hood to your cape ... may I?"
He drew it up over her hair, restraining his impulse to touch her cheek
as he did so. The cape reminded him of Ann Penniman and his afternoon's
adventure, and he smiled a little to himself. That had been so natural a
performance, and this enforced deference was so entirely a new
experience. He was enjoying it; he liked the way in which Judith kept
the distance between them. She sat well against her corner of the bench.
He could see her face now, black and white and rounded into girlishness
by the encircling hood, again reminding him of Ann.
"I like those hooded capes," he remarked. "I don't know that I ever saw
one till I came here."
"Haven't you? Almost every woman here has one--they are so convenient.
Do you know what sun-bonnets are? If you're here in the summer you'll
become acquainted with them, too. But I suppose you will be off befo'
then." She spoke more lazily than usual, slurred her words more, another
reminder of Ann.
"I shan't be able to get away when I go--if you continue to be kind to
me."
Judith laughed. "Do you happen to be Irish?"
"Of course I'm Irish! Haven't you noticed my long upper lip? My father
was a pretty successful Chicago ward politician and I have the gift of
gab and manipulation too. I can talk money out of a man--any hour of the
day. Now that I have had enough of adventure, I mean to settle down to
handling people and making money. I was born to it.... But that sort of
thing is contrary to all your traditions, isn't it?" he added.
Judith thought that he judged himself rightly; his voice alone would
accomplish for him; it had both a persuasive and a compelling quality.
"It is, but I admire it," she returned decidedly. He had offered her the
opportunity she wanted.
"You do?" Baird said, surprised. Then his shrewdness added, "No, you
only think you do. I don't believe there is a man in your family who
would thrill over making money. I mean, thrill at the fight one must
make in order to gain power over men and circumstances, for that is
really the thing that buoys the money-maker, sheer joy in the tussle.
There is the miser, of course, but he's rarely a genius. Any one can be
a miser, if so inclined."
"You are right--the men of my family have very little business ability,"
Judith answered. "Garvin is the only one who has. He would be a success,
if given the opportunity. He is tremendously interested in anything he
undertakes and is capable of concentration--and he wants to make money."
It was not Baird's reading of Garvin Westmore, but he answered promptly:
"He seems to be an energetic, wide-awake sort." Baird's alertness warned
him that there was purpose in Judith's remarks.
Judith continued. "Yes, and I should like Garvin to have his chance....
You see, ever since he was a child he has been tied down to this place.
They will tell you about here that I have run the farm--for it is that
now--the days of tobacco growing were over long ago--but it is Garvin,
really, who has done all the buying and selling. He has made quite an
income from his horses, simply because he has been interested in it. He
would be just as interested in manufacturing automobiles, for
instance--if he could get a position in some promising company."
Baird understood now. He had thought swiftly while Judith talked. So
that was the reason he had been welcome at Westmore! That was the favor
Judith meant to ask--he was to find a place for Garvin.
It did not trouble Baird in the least that he was expected to make a
return for what he received--his experience had taught him that life was
run largely on that basis--but he was stung by the thought that Judith
had smiled on him for a purpose. He had mentioned his plans to no one;
it spoke well for her keenness that she had divined the industry he had
selected for his own advancement. But if she expected to gain more from
a bargain than he did, she was mistaken.
It was perhaps as well that Judith did not see his expression. His voice
did not lose its pleasing quality, however. "Garvin has some capital, I
suppose?"
"Very little, I am afraid," Judith said regretfully.
Baird did not say, "But his brother has." He looked down at her,
studying her clear-cut features closely. Evidently he had been right
when he had decided that she was cold; she had simply unbent for a
purpose. Aloud he said, "The manufacture of automobiles is going to be a
tremendous industry. I have some automobile connections--I'll talk to
Garvin a little."
It was not his voice that acquainted Judith with the chill he felt; she
simply sensed it. She looked up at him. "That was the favor I was going
to ask of you," she said softly. "Just to talk to Garvin a little and
interest him in some plan that will get him away from all this." She
indicated their surroundings by a gesture. "The family traditions have
very little hold on Garvin--they make him impatient and dissatisfied.
You see, I am older than my brother and I have had a great deal of
responsibility. I feel more like a mother than a sister to him. His
dissatisfaction worries me terribly. It would be doing me a very great
favor if you would interest yourself a little in Garvin.... We Westmores
rarely ask favors, Mr. Baird, and only of those whom we really like. I
have so much confidence in you." Judith's voice was sweet and pleading
at the end; her hand stole out from her cape and touched his arm.
She had lifted him quickly out of coldness into something warmer than
admiration. His doubts had melted like a fog under sunshine. He took her
hand and kissed it. "There are few things I would not do for you,
Wonder-woman.... Thank you, dear."
He would have kept her hand, but she drew it away, and Baird was almost
instantly glad that she did. He was forgetting himself. The thing he
liked best in her was her aloofness. "I've often wanted to thank you for
the way you have taken me in and made me feel at home," he declared.
"I've never had much of that sort of kindness shown me--I appreciate
it."
"I want you to feel at home at Westmore," she answered. "You must come
often--and always be nice to me." She had regained her usual graceful
vivacity. "Some day we will ride all over the place and you shall become
really acquainted with it.... Do you see that group of trees beyond
there, against the sky? That is our family burying-ground--generations
of Westmores. There are several quaint tombstones up there."
"You keep even your dead to yourselves, don't you? In a way, I like the
clannishness of it. You keep everything to yourselves, birth and
marriage and death.... I think there's too much fuss and ceremony over
all three. The first is generally a misfortune, the second is apt to be
no cause for rejoicing, and the end of it all no real reason for
mourning."
It was the first time Judith had heard this note from him. "Mr. Baird!
How unlike you!... It might be Garvin talking."
Baird did not want to talk about Garvin, so he made no reply. There was
silence for a time. For some unaccountable reason Baird was touched by
depression. This family with their close interests reminded him that no
one would care particularly how he lived or when he died.
He was aroused by Judith's sudden movement. She was sitting taut, her
hood flung back. "What is it?" he asked.
Her hand caught his arm, a grip of steel. "Hush!" she said sharply.
"Listen!... There are voices at the barn--and don't you hear
galloping--on the road? Don't you hear it?"
Baird could hear it distinctly, furious galloping, now a thud on soft
ground, then the click of hoofs against stones, and several men's voices
at the barn.
"Yes, I hear it--what has happened?"
But Judith was off and away, running up the terraces, and her
exclamation of distress reached him indistinctly, "Oh, _why_ didn't I
stay at the house!"
X
THE INFINITELY PAINFUL THING
Judith was not running to the house; she cut across the terraces to the
stables, and Baird followed her with all the speed possible to him. And
yet he did not catch up with her until after she had reached the group
of men and horses. When he came up they had just parted, four horsemen
off at a gallop down the road in the direction of the Post-Road, two men
and Judith left standing beneath the stable lantern.
Baird recognized Edward and the colonel as he came up, and he was near
enough to hear Edward's more distinct answer to Judith's indistinct
question: "Yes--Garvin--to the Mine Banks.... My _God_!"
"What has happened?" Baird asked breathlessly.
All three turned on him, and Baird saw Judith's white hand grip Edward's
arm. He was answered by a curious silence, a portentous silence that
conveyed a sense of tragedy. It was Judith who spoke finally:
"They are after Garvin's horse, Mr. Baird," she said evenly and clearly.
Garvin's horse? Baird looked from one to the other, three white faces
carven into sudden and violent self-control. There was something in the
way in which they faced him that affected Baird queerly. They stood
together as if they hid something infinitely painful from him that the
light of the lantern failed to reveal; something that hurt and shamed
them, and yet about which they rallied determinedly--as Judith had lied,
clearly and resolutely; as if they stood guard over a painful secret,
and appealed to him to respect it.
Baird heard himself say in a voice that was robbed of everything but
assumed relief: "That was what we heard then--the horse making off. Can
I help?"
"I think not, Mr. Baird--thank you--Copeley and the others--have gone,"
Edward answered, his pauses marking the steadiness of each word.
Judith's clear voice followed her brother's effort instantly. "We may as
well go in, I think, Edward. There is nothing we can do." She still had
her hand on his arm, and she turned with him, as if guiding him, and
kept by his side, leaving Baird to follow with the colonel.
The colonel spoke for the first time. "That's true. There's no good of
our standin' about--not a bit.... It's a pleasant enough evenin' to be
out in, though, Mr. Baird--like May, suh. You'll not know Westmo' by the
middle of next week--the trees and the lilacs setting out green. It
takes only a few days fo' spring to come here, on the Ridge, and this is
an early year--a very early year, suh."
If Baird had not been sobered by a sense of tragedy, he might have been
amused by the colonel's attempt to follow Judith's lead. But the old
gentleman's determinedly hearty voice failed him sadly, and Baird hoped
that he had played the part he had instinctively chosen better than the
colonel was playing his. And at the same time Baird's quick brain was
trying to solve Edward's agonized, "My _God_!" What had Garvin done?
Baird saw the man as he had looked that morning, with pistol raised.
He was answering the colonel. "I have been looking forward to spring
here. I suppose you don't hunt after the crops are up."
"No, suh--we do have a little consideration fo' others, though we are
not given credit for it. Now at Fair Field--"
The colonel had stopped abruptly. They had come to the veranda and from
its lowest step a huddled heap had got to its feet, a big negress whose
black hands were torturing her white apron. "Miss Judith--?" she said
whimperingly.
Judith stopped dead. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was as sharp
as the lash of a whip.
"Miss Judith--I didn't go fo' to do it--" the woman begged humbly.
Judith cut her off. "Go up-stairs and stay there!... Go!"
The woman slunk by them and around the corner of the house like a
whipped dog, and Judith went on, her head high, her hand still on
Edward's arm. As they went up the steps and the light from the hall
shone on her, Baird saw her face distinctly, immobile as a death-mask,
but with restless eyes glancing at the ballroom, which was lighted but
silent, then searching the hall. The front door stood wide, and on the
portico the family were gathered, all except Mrs. Dickenson and her
daughter, who were in the drawing-room.
If Baird had needed confirmation of his fears, he had it in Mrs.
Dickenson's face. She was clinging to her daughter, her face chalk-white
and her eyes terror-stricken. The truth might escape from her at any
moment; she looked on the verge of hysteria.
But Judith had noticed more quickly than Baird, and she spoke to the
colonel in the same clear way in which she had spoken from the
beginning. "Take her up-stairs, Ridley. She's frightened at all this
galloping about, and no wonder." Then dropping Edward's arm she went
straight on to the front door, her voice raised somewhat more, like an
officer giving his orders, and at the same time conveying a warning:
"Come on in, all of you, and get ready for supper. I dare say Mr. Baird
is hungry--I am--and we can't get Garvin's horse back by staring after
it.... Aunt Carlotta Morrison, come help me get every one together.
Come!"
It was all for him, Baird knew it--all this bravery. He was the stranger
among them; the one person from whom the painful thing, whatever it was,
must be kept. They could not gather together in grief or sympathy or
council--he was there. And it devolved upon him to play his part; to see
nothing; understand nothing; and escape as soon as he could.
Baird would have given much to be able to get his horse and disappear.
But that was not possible. He was experiencing the painful embarrassment
of a guest whose absence was earnestly, even tragically desired, but
whose departure would cause more pain than his presence--so long as he
could successfully maintain an air of unconsciousness.
He must stay, but it occurred to Baird that he could give them a few
moments in which to remove their masks, in which to consult together.
"I'll go wash up," he said to Edward.
Edward stood with hand on the stair-rail, erect but deadly pale. He
answered steadily and courteously, "Very well, Baird--it's what I must
do in a moment. If you need anything, ring. I suppose some of the
servants are about."
"Thanks," Baird said, and escaped.
He washed his hands and smoothed his hair mechanically. He was generally
cool when excited, but he muttered to himself, "What in hell can it be?
It's serious, whatever it is." His brain had already traversed several
possibilities. Had Garvin suddenly gone mad? Or committed murder?... Or
had his own brain gone back on him, registered an entirely erroneous set
of impressions?... Of course it hadn't. Those people were both terrified
and ashamed.
But he must go on with it. He had answered to the spur of Judith's
voice. He was a poor sort if he couldn't play his part also.... Baird
judged that he had given them time enough in which to consult, and not
too much time in which to suspect him. He must go down.
Baird never forgot that supper. They were gathered in the dining-room
when he came down, composed, courteous, charming. It was a depleted
company, five of the men were absent, and Mrs. Dickenson and her
daughter, but the colonel was there, and Edward, and again Baird sat by
Judith. The younger people were silent; there was a hushed strained air
about them, but their elders covered their silence. The beautiful old
mahogany table, bared now of linen, had been made smaller to hide
vacancies, bringing them together: Edward, with the sharp lines of
suffering growing and deepening about his mouth, but with quick
attention for everybody; Mrs. Morrison, with her stately white head even
more erect than usual; the colonel, with recovered aplomb.
The colonel told stories that Baird guessed the family knew well; Mrs.
Morrison reproved every one present and was really amusing, and Judith
smiled brilliantly and tossed the conversational ball back and forth.
She did not let it rest for a moment. A change had come over her; there
was a vivid spot in either cheek and her eyes were shining--nerves
strained to breaking point, Baird guessed, and, when he saw how her
hands shook, he himself began to talk--of South America, of Wyoming. He
dragged forgotten experiences out of obscure corners of his brain and
presented them.
He talked as he had never talked before, not even when he talked "money
out of a man." He was talking against time, the first moment when he
could relieve that proudly secretive company of his undesired presence;
talked with the full consciousness that Priscilla Copeley was looking
wanly at food she could not touch; that Edward's ear, inclined as if
listening to him, was bent to catch every sound from without; that
Judith's restless hand was beating a tattoo on the edge of the table
while she also listened and waited. Baird did not enjoy what he was
doing, but he liked always to play up to a demand. Judith needed what
little help he could give her.
It was over at last. Baird knew just when Judith judged that appearances
had been sufficiently maintained, and the moment had arrived when the
party could break up. He said good night then, but, first, he asked
Priscilla Copeley, "You'll not forget our ride to-morrow?"
He wondered what her answer would be, but even in this slip of a girl
the family spirit was alive. "No, indeed," she returned through
colorless lips. "At four o'clock, Mr. Baird," and she succeeded in
smiling.
Judith went with him to the stairs, and Baird thanked her "for one of
the pleasantest and most interesting evenings I have ever spent," as he
phrased it.
"And I am grateful to you," she said quietly. "You were wonderful at
supper." For the moment there was all of Edward's melancholy in her
anxious eyes.
So she had guessed. Baird hoped the others had not; he felt almost
certain they had not. He took her hand and kissed it--there was nothing
he could say.
The color deepened in Judith's face. "Sleep well--" she said softly, and
turned away.
Baird had no intention of sleeping. He changed into his riding clothes
and lay down fully dressed. He also was waiting and listening; he would
sleep as little as any one else in that house; he had never felt less
like sleeping.
There were steps and voices for a time; some of the family were taking
leave. Then, gradually, the house settled into watchful quiet; now and
then carefully silenced movements on the stairs, and the steady ticking
of the clock in the hall. Baird had already thought of every
possibility, so he was without conjectures, but sometime before daylight
those who had ridden away would return. He was waiting for that.