then at Baird, who had been silently observant. "Perhaps you'll watch
over this reckless young person until Mr. Penniman comes," he said more
lightly. "Having scolded, I'll depart.... Good-by, Ann." But there was
nothing chiding in the parting look he gave her, Baird noticed.
There was good reason for his somewhat hasty departure, for the man who
had just separated from the group on the station platform was Coats
Penniman. When he started toward them, Edward had ridden on. As he
approached, Coats eyed Baird quite as gravely and observantly as Edward
had done. He had a stern face, heavy black brows that lowered easily
over blue-gray eyes.
Baird gave him look for look, coolly, returning his nod in like fashion,
and Coats transferred his attention to Ann. "Well, Ann?"
"I stopped up here on account of the horse," Ann explained. "He was ugly
when the train came--if I'd been nearer, I reckon he'd have run
away.... This is Mr. Baird, father--he wanted to meet you--he wants to
sell you an automobile." Ann was very certain that her father would
promptly dispose of Baird. He knew who Baird was, the whole Ridge knew
Baird now--an enterprising young fellow who had been put forward by the
Westmores.
Both to her surprise and Baird's, Coats offered his hand. "I'm glad to
meet you. I've heard about you--you're a western man, aren't you?"
"Chicago.... Some one was telling me you'd lived out there--long enough
to be interested in automobiles, I hope." Baird had rather a taking
smile, particularly when it was whimsical.
To Ann's greater surprise, Coats said, "I have been thinking of getting
one--if for no other reason than to get some decent roads about here.
From what I know of your Dempsters they can be guaranteed to furnish an
accident or two that would stir up our county supervisors. The roads
they give us are an outrage."
Coats' face softened pleasantly under amusement, and Baird laughed.
"Tell me who they are, and I'll go for them--sell each one of them a
machine. That's a revenge that ought to satisfy you."
"All right--if you want to ride on with us, I'll tell you. I'm partial
to automobiles anyway--even a Dempster's more satisfactory than a brute
like this.... Ann, you knew he wasn't safe--why didn't you bring
Jinny?"
"Jinny went lame this morning, an' the other horses were working."
Coats frowned. "There's always something wrong with them. The horse is
certainly an obsolete way of getting about--I'll be glad when he becomes
merely a pet."
Baird agreed with him. He liked to win a man, particularly an
intelligent, unassuming man like Coats Penniman. He set himself to do
so, and found that Coats, for some unexplainable reason, was willing to
be friendly. They found plenty to talk about, even for the length of
four miles up the Post-Road, and, when Coats chose the longer way round,
by the front road, Baird kept on with them, as far as the club house. He
had decided that he liked Coats Penniman, and that it was pleasant
riding in this slow way through the leafy scents of May, particularly
with anything as lovely to look at as Ann.
Ann had been sufficiently surprised to pay attention to the conversation
for a time, to notice that Baird was not at all handsome, not like
Garvin or Edward, but broad-shouldered and strong-featured. His eyes
were too cold a gray, his nose too aquiline, his cheek-bones too high,
and his upper lip too long. And he had entirely too much jaw. Yet, for
some reason, he was attractive, at any rate while he talked; his voice
was deep but not at all harsh.
So Ann decided, then looked off over the country and thought of the one
overwhelming thing, the night before--and of Edward. The Post-Road was
shut in by trees in some places, but there were long stretches where the
country sloped away on either side, pastures vivid with spring green,
alternating with reddish brown plowed fields and orchards that already
showed patches of color, cherry and peach bloom. The green of the woods
seemed to darken even while she watched, they were growing so rapidly
into full leaf. In a few days the woods would be sprayed with white, a
riot of dogwood. And the wood-honeysuckle was coming into pink bloom
everywhere; and millions of violets and wild pansies. The grass in the
groves was thick with forget-me-nots, and the creek hollows white and
yellow and pinky-green with blood-root, adder's-tongue and
Jack-in-the-pulpit.
Every other spring she had roamed the country; this spring she had
forgotten the flowers. She knew where the wild pansies grew the largest
and most of them had the velvety upper petals that proclaimed them
pansies and not violets; and where the rare white violets were to be
found. As they crossed the bridge where, some twenty feet below, the
creek that skirted the Mine Banks tumbled over big rocks, Ann remembered
in a vague way, as one thinks of something years past, that she used to
find white violets in the soft spaces between the rocks. She thought
much more vividly of how dangerous the bridge was, without any side
rails, simply a planking and that none too wide; a careless turn on a
dark night, and an automobile could easily be dashed to pieces below.
It would be dreadful if anything happened to Garvin.
Every thought she had circled about him, and her momentous promise the
night before, a thing sealed and unalterable now.... She was going away
from all this, the green and the flowers, the fields and the woods.
Everything would be quite different--and she was different already--not
the same Ann at all.... She had been fearfully angry with Judith, and
terribly hurt because of Edward, quite beside herself, and all Garvin
had said to her had been so sweet, like balm laid on aching wounds--and
she had given her promise, forgotten everything and everybody but Garvin
and herself. She had even forgotten to tell Garvin that she was sure Ben
knew that they met, and how dangerous it was for them to go on
meeting.... And now it was plain that Edward had not meant to hurt her
at all ... and she would have to see him, and with a secret which she
must keep from everybody.... Suppose she told Edward that she was
engaged to his brother, and how it had come about?...
Her father's invitation to Baird aroused her. They had come to the club
entrance and had stopped. "Come over some evening and see us," Coats
said, "and don't hesitate to ride through whenever you want--the key to
the gate is in a notch near the top of the right-hand post."
"Thank you," Baird returned heartily. "I'll be glad to come, and glad
to take the short cut sometimes, too." He swept off his cap to them, a
gleam of mischief in his eyes when he looked at Ann. Ann was flushed by
her thoughts, and she colored still more deeply because of his
meaningful glance.
Coats had noted Baird's look and Ann's blush. He had been thinking
steadily of something quite unconnected with his conversation with
Baird. He waited a little before he asked, "That's an attractive young
fellow--had you met him before, Ann?"
Ann was succinct. "I let him through the gate once, just before you came
home. I haven't talked with him since--till to-day."
"Who was the other man who was with you when I got off the train?"
"Edward Westmore--they both helped me with the horse," Ann answered with
a calmness she did not feel. If her father questioned further, she did
not know what she would do; every nerve in her was jumping, as they had
been all night and all day.
But he did not. For a time they rode in an oppressive silence. Then
Coats said, "I rather like Mr. Baird. He's the sort who's apt to judge
men and women more by what they are than by what their great
grandparents were. He comes from a part of the country that's not so
hidebound by caste as this country. And he's sure to go back to it. He
can come to my house whenever he likes--I approve _his_ kind."
Ann said nothing.
XXIII
CHAOTIC UNCERTAINTY
When Baird started for Westmore that evening the full moon had already
turned the world white.
He had dined with laughter and talk about him, for usually the club was
gay on Saturday night. The hunting season was over, but some of the
summer residents of the Ridge had come out to their homes and others
were out from the city for the afternoon, for dinner parties at the club
and a ride back through the moonlight.
Baird had left Garvin Westmore at the club and with the signs of an
afternoon of indulgence upon him. Baird had discovered that liquor made
Garvin cool and silent, a surface restraint that was deceptive. It was
his eyes that betrayed him when he was farther gone than usual,
sometimes burning and restless, again profoundly melancholy. Baird had
not thought of that explanation for the man's peculiarities.
Though he had not shown it to Garvin, Baird was thoroughly annoyed. The
man must often have been under the influence of liquor when he had not
suspected it; he was evidently the sort that drank secretly. Baird
doubted whether any one knew that Garvin drank so much; his family were
probably in the dark, worried over his moodiness and anxious about him,
but unsuspicious of the real cause. Baird wished that he had known this
before his firm had placed the man in a responsible position. Had he
known, not even his devotion to Judith and his very lively desire to
forward his own interests would have led him to recommend Garvin.
Garvin had thanked him with all the Westmore grace for the position
Baird had secured for him, then added restlessly, "A month! I wish I
could get out of this to-morrow!"
Baird reflected, as he rode through the moonlight, that the thing was
done now and couldn't be helped. It was simply up to Garvin: if he did
not make good, he would be ousted, that was all. But it was too bad. The
man must be mad to celebrate his good luck by a debauch, for that was
evidently what it was. Baird was no teetotaler, the consumption of a
certain amount of liquor seemed to be necessary for the transaction of
business, but he held, with the rest of his kind, that the man who
sought to drown his troubles in drink, or celebrate his joys by getting
full was a fool, and that the secret debauchee was something decidedly
worse.
He was going to Westmore by the Back Road and the Mine Banks, and, as he
looked up at Crest Cave, he remembered what Garvin had said: "Lord!
I've slept off many a drunk up there." Baird had never solved the
mysteries of that queer night he had spent at Westmore--that they were
some set of circumstances connected with Garvin was the only explanation
he had been able to make to himself. He felt certain of it now; a man
with Garvin's weakness was capable of any sort of madness. He was glad
Judith was the sane wholesome woman she was.
Baird also remembered what a man at the club had told him of Garvin's
father: "The old colonel was a fine sort, hot-tempered and proud as the
deuce, but a gallant sort, just the same--until the war broke him. Then
came the hard times, beastly hard times for everybody, and the colonel
went under--began to soak and went on soaking to the end." Edward and
Judith had come before that time, but Garvin had not.
"I suppose the poor devil can't help it," Baird thought, and shrugged
away his annoyance. Besides, he was going to become one of the clan; it
was his duty to do all he could for Garvin.
In that soberly responsible frame of mind Baird rode up to Westmore, and
the long imposing structure that for nearly two centuries had housed
Judith's ancestors impressed him somberly. Perhaps it was as well, on
the whole, not to have any known ancestors; it must be rather eery to
recognize your great-grandfather cropping up in yourself--damned
uncomfortable sometimes ... Well, Judith had certified ancestors enough
to supply their family with credentials and with ghosts. Their
children...
Baird's thoughts had progressed to this point and beyond when he reached
Westmore. In the last twenty-four hours he had considered every possible
responsibility connected with matrimony and had thought very little
about the thing that turns the world golden, that transcends even the
transports of passion, hallows heaven and earth. But he had not realized
that. Marriage was a serious thing; it had always impressed him as an
almost terrifyingly serious thing.
The door was opened to him by Hetty, the big negress. "Can I see Miss
Judith?" Baird asked, preparing to step in.
"Miss Judith ain't here, Mr. Baird--she's done gone fo' a visit."
"Not here?" Baird said blankly.
"No, suh--she went this evenin' fo' over Sunday--to Fair Field. They's a
party holdin' at the club--she's gone fo' hit."
Baird managed to say, casually, "Very well--just tell her, when she
comes back, that I called."
"Yes, suh."
Baird rode down the Westmore Road even more slowly than he had come up.
His first feeling was a hot sense of rebuff--until he began to ask
himself why Judith had run away from him?... But she had not run away
from him; she had not gone until that evening?... There had been the
afternoon during which she might reasonably expect him to come--and the
morning that might have brought her a letter from him.
It came over Baird then, with a warm flush, a shock of surprise at
himself, that he had been a pretty sort of lover! He had ridden away
after that kiss of love she had given him, when even a stupid man would
have found an excuse for staying; he had written no impassioned note
that Sam must deliver at daybreak; he had dallied through the afternoon,
and had ridden composedly up to Westmore with the whole future mapped
out in his mind ... Good lord!... And he was a passionate man,
too--ordinarily!
Baird was so intensely surprised at himself that, for a time, he could
consider nothing but his own conduct. He had never been more in earnest
in his life, never more decided upon a course of action. Why, he had
settled everything, even to the details of a trip abroad with Judith and
the sort of house he would have money enough to run when they came back,
and yet he had left undone the first and most natural things a man would
do!
Baird was emotionally headlong, he knew that well, easily aroused and
always hot in pursuit. What in heaven's name had been the matter with
him these last twenty-four hours? His own case bewildered him more than
anything he had ever come across. He set his brain to work upon himself,
and finally evolved an explanation, which, as is usual when a man seeks
to elucidate his own emotional shortcomings, threw the onus upon the
woman: Judith's premature offering of herself had made him too sure of
her. She had deliberately attracted him, and that was all right, that
was what men and women were placed in the world for, to be mutually
attracted and to come together. And his pursuit of her was all right,
too, particularly right because it had never entered his head to trifle
with her--he had respected and admired her too much for that. It was a
tribute to the sort of hold she had laid upon him during those weeks of
pursuit, that the instant he knew she loved him he had considered
marriage and had decided upon it as completely as he had ever decided
upon any important thing. The thoughts he had of Judith had been,
throughout, the decentest and the honestest thoughts he had ever had.
Then he went on to own to himself that a certain eagerness had departed
from him after that kiss of hers. In that one respect it had been a
little like some other experiences, when he had pursued determinedly,
captured rather easily, then had lost zest.... But he had wanted to
marry Judith--that was the unexplainable thing.... Was it simply that,
on the whole, she had been such a new experience that he had quite
naturally considered marriage, which, Lord knows, was a new and strange
enough thing for him to consider?
At this point, Baird asked himself point-blank, "Do you love Judith, or
don't you?" And he answered himself honestly, for he felt somewhat
desperately in need of honesty. "Yes, I love her, or I wouldn't be
thinking of marrying her--I've never wanted to marry any other woman
I've known."
Baird considered for a longer space, and then summed up thus: "From the
very first Judith appealed to the best in me--she's appealed more to the
mental than the physical side of me. That's why, instead of plunging
along in a fever these last twenty-four hours, I've been planning for a
contented future. And if respect and admiration and the certainty that a
woman will make you a splendid, wife, plus a reasonable degree of
passion, aren't good reasons for thinking of marriage, then I've learned
nothing from watching men who have been infatuated with their wives in
much the same fashion that a man is infatuated with his mistress; the
result is usually ructions. I love Judith in sensible marrying fashion,
but I confess I ought to feel more joyous over it."
Unless a man is permeated by the golden thing of which, as yet, Baird
had little conception, he is apt to settle his own case first and the
woman's last. He turned finally to a consideration of Judith. Baird was
not any more conceited than the average man, but the certainty that
Judith loved him about as completely as a woman could love a man was his
unalterable conviction. He might live to be eighty, live to doubt most
things, but of that he was certain. And it had not been a sudden thing
with her; it was a culmination, a steady growing up to an involuntary
offering. She desired him and wished to marry him, and not after the
deliberate fashion in which he had been considering their union. Judith
loved him intensely, and had sought to attract him as many honest women
before her had sought to capture the men they wished to marry. She had
waited through the day, then had gone because she must do something to
save her pride. She knew that, if the spark was in him at all, he would
follow.
He knew now just how it was with him, and he knew how it was with her.
He wasn't in the least elated, yet he was pretty thoroughly committed.
What did he intend to do?
XXIV
A DEFINITION OF LOVE
Baird was still pondering his situation when, half an hour later, he let
himself through the Penniman gate. The collie must have been abroad in
the moonlight seeking adventure, for Baird was not disturbed by any
hostile demonstrations; the Penniman barn and house might have been
abandoned property, they were so silent under the moon; there was no
lighted window, no stir of any kind--until he neared the front
porch--then some woman dressed in white rose from a chair, evidently
startled.
Even in the bright moonlight, Baird could not tell whether it was Ann
Penniman or not, he was not near enough, but he was quick to reassure
whoever it was: "It's Nickolas Baird; Mr. Penniman gave me permission to
come through."
It was Ann's relieved voice that answered. "Oh--is it?... I thought it
was some one else," and she sat down again. Ann had the porch to herself
that evening, for Sue and Coats had gone to a neighbor's, and, perhaps
because she had been thinking absorbedly of Garvin, she had been
startled into wondering if the rider could be he.
Baird had let his horse bring him by the shortest way, for he had had
about enough of his thoughts, and was tired of the saddle. When seated
in his room, in business fashion, he would decide just what course to
take. It occurred to him now that he would think the better for a
respite. Looking at Ann would be a relief, like laying down a treatise
and taking up a novel.
He had come nearer. "Sitting all alone, Miss Ann?" he asked.
"Yes.... Father and Aunt Sue have gone to make a visit."
Baird dismounted and came to her. "Just sitting and thinking? I've been
riding and thinking, and I'm tired of it. May I stop for a while?"
"If you like," Ann said indifferently. "I reckon father'll come along
before long--they only went to a neighbor's." Then, because her father
had decreed that Baird should be treated hospitably, she added, "Won't
you wait for him?"
"A few minutes." Baird seated himself on the top step, at Ann's feet.
"What a night!"
"The chair'd be more comfortable," Ann suggested politely.
"I'd rather sit here, thank you.... May I have the cushion, though?"
He took it from the chair, and sat back against the pillar of the porch,
his legs stretched comfortably. He could see Ann's face quite distinctly
now, all except her eyes,--they were shadowed pools in a white setting;
she was black and white, more marked contrasts than in daylight, though
not so clearly outlined.
"I've just been to Westmore," Baird said, "and when we struck the County
Road that horse of mine turned this way, instead of going on by the Mine
Banks. I was thinking too hard to notice until he'd gone some distance,
so I let him have his way. They're cute beasts--when they're headed for
their stables they're as good as a man at calculating distance."
"Did you get him here?" Ann asked.
"Yes, I bought him off Garvin Westmore."
"Almost every horse about here would choose this way through to the
Post-Road because they're used to it. One reason the Mine Banks Road is
so dreadful is because everybody used to come this shorter way. I used
to count the horses that came through in a day--when I was little."
"You've always lived here, then, Miss Ann?"
"Always.... I reckon I'd be lonely for it--if I went away," she added
soberly.
"You wouldn't be going far away, would you?"
"Oh, no--"
There was something in her manner that recalled fleeting conjectures
Baird had had since seeing her with Edward that afternoon. Judith had
said, "I realize that Edward will probably marry--" It would be odd if
Edward was really thinking seriously of Ann--a Penniman and all the rest
of it. There'd be a stir on the Ridge, and a perfect storm in the clan.
Silly, caste-bound idiots! Ann was exquisite enough for any sphere. She
had been superb while she handled that horse--plenty of spirit and go.
And if Edward loved her, he'd marry her, in spite of them all; Edward
was a pretty fine sort.... But how about Garvin?... Some one had talked
love to Ann, it showed in her face and in her voice--that was what made
her seem so changed. Was it Edward or Garvin?... She certainly had
drawing power, the thing that's entirely aside from physical beauty;
ugly women often had it.
Baird turned from his thoughts. "This is a different sort of place from
where I grew up--just about as different as you can imagine," and he
slipped into reminiscences of Chicago and of his father, and, when Ann
showed her interest, he endeavored to elucidate the intricacies of ward
politics.
It seemed to Ann that he had grown up with plenty of wickedness about
him, drinking and stealing and such things; among men who cared nothing
about any one or anything, only to make money. It was a wonder that he
was as nice as he was, and he must be nice, in spite of the way he had
once behaved to her, or Edward and Garvin would not be so devoted to
him. Ann was certain that Judith Westmore could be cruel, very beautiful
and charming, but cruelly proud. Baird was evidently courting her, and
she was probably not very nice to him. He certainly did not seem as
light-hearted as he once did. And neither was she--she was feeling
heavy-hearted enough.
Ann was always quick with sympathy. She had been poignantly reminiscent
all day, and she, in her turn, told Baird a little about her own
childhood, speaking so softly that her slurred syllables were music. She
told him nothing intimate, yet it was a revelation of loneliness; the
fields and the woods and Ben had been her companions. Baird was
impressed, as Edward had been, by a child life lived apart from its
family.
"You hadn't a mother, then, Ann?" Baird had responded to the change in
her manner; he forgot to say, "Miss Ann."
"My mother died when I was born," Ann said with a quiver of feeling. "I
reckon if I'd had her, everything would have been all different."