On re-entering the house, Thor waited for his father in the hall.
Finding the drawing-room empty, and inferring that his mother had gone
up-stairs, he decided to say nothing of the scene between her and Mrs.
Willoughby. For the time being his own needs demanded right of way.
Nothing else could be attended to till they had received consideration.
With that reflection something surged in him--surged and exulted. He was
to be allowed to speak of his love at last! He was to be forced to
confess it! If he was never to name it again, he would do so this once,
getting some outlet for his passion! He both glowed and trembled. He
both strained forward and recoiled. Already he felt drunk with a wine
that roused the holier emotions as ardently as it fired the senses. He
could scarcely take in the purport of his father's words as the latter
stamped the snow from his boots in the entry and said:
"Has that poor woman been here? Sorry for her, Thor; sorry for her from
the bottom of my heart."
The young man had no response to make. He was in a realm in which the
reference had no meaning. Archie continued, while hanging his overcoat
and hat in the closet at the foot of the stairs:
"Impossible to make her understand. Women like that can never see why
they shouldn't eat their cake and have it, too. Books open for her
inspection. But what's one to do?"
When he emerged from the closet Thor saw that his face was gray. He
looked mortally tired and sad. He had been sad for some weeks past--sad
and detached--ever since the night when he had made his ineffectual bid
for the care of Thor's prospective money. He had betrayed no hint of
resentment toward his son--nothing but this dignified lassitude, this
reserved, high-bred, speechless expression of failure that smote Thor to
the heart. But this evening he looked worn as well, worn and old, though
brave and patient and able to command a weary, flickering smile.
"But I'm glad it's come. It will be a relief to have it over. Seen it
coming so long that it's been like a nightmare. Rather have come to
grief myself--assure you I would."
"Father, could I speak to you for a few minutes?"
"About this?"
"No, not about this; about something else--something rather important."
There was a sudden gleam in the father's eyes which gave Thor a second
pang. He had seen it once or twice already during these weeks of partial
estrangement. It was the gleam of hope--of hope that Thor might have
grown repentant. It had the sparkle of fire in it when, seated in a
business attitude at the desk which held the center of the library, he
looked up expectantly at his son. "Well, my boy?"
Thor remained standing. "It's about that property of Fay's, father."
"Oh, again?" The light in the eyes went out with the suddenness of an
electric lamp.
"I only want to say this, father," Thor hurried on, so as to get the
interview over, "that if you want to sell the place, I'll take it. I'll
take it on your own terms. You can make them what you like."
Archie leaned on the desk, passing his hand over his brow. "I'm sorry,
Thor. I can't."
Thor had the curious reminiscent sensation of being once more a little
boy, with some pleasure forbidden him. "Oh, father, why? I want it
awfully."
"So I see. I don't see why you should, but--"
"Well, I'll tell you. I want to protect Fay, because--"
Masterman interrupted without looking up. "And that's just what I don't
want to do. I want to get rid of the lot."
Rid of the lot! The expression was alarming. In his father's mind the
issue, then, was personal. It was not only personal, but it was
inclusive. It included Rosie. She was rated in--the lot. Clearly the
minute had come at which to speak plainly.
"If you want to get rid of them on my account, father, I may as well
tell you--"
"No; it's got nothing to do with you." He was still resting his forehead
on his hand, looking downward at the blotting-paper on his desk. "It's
Claude."
Thor started back. "Claude? What's he got to do with it?"
"I hadn't made up my mind whether to tell you or not; but--"
"He doesn't even know them. Of course he knows who they are. Fay was
Grandpa Thorley's--"
Masterman continued to speak wearily. "He may not know them all. It's
motive enough for my action that he knows--the girl."
"Oh no, he doesn't."
"You'd better ask him."
"I have asked him."
"Then you'd better ask him again."
"But, father, she couldn't know him without my seeing it. I'm at the
house nearly every day. The mother, you know."
"Apparently your eyes aren't sharp enough. You should take a lesson from
your uncle Sim."
"But, father, I don't understand--"
"Then I'll tell you. It seems that Claude has known this girl for the
past four or five months--"
"Oh no, no! That's all wrong. It isn't three months since I talked to
Claude about her. Claude didn't even remember they had a girl. He'd
forgotten it."
"I know what I'm talking about, Thor. Don't contradict. Seems your uncle
Sim has had his eye on them all along."
Thor smote his side with his clenched fist. "There's some mistake,
father. It can't _be_."
"I wish there was a mistake, Thor. But there isn't. If I could afford it
I should send Claude abroad. Send him round the world. But I can't just
now, with this mix-up in the business. There's no doubt but that the
girl is bad--"
"Father!"
If Masterman had been looking up he would have seen the convulsion of
pain on his son's face, and got some inkling of his state of mind.
"As bad as they make 'em--" he went on, tranquilly.
"No, no, father. You mustn't say that."
"I can't help saying it, Thor. I know how you feel about Claude. You
feel as I do myself. But you and I must take hold of him and save him.
We must get rid of this girl--"
"But she's not bad, father--"
Masterman raised himself and leaned back in his chair. He saw that Thor
was white, with curious black streaks and shadows in his long, gaunt
face. "Oh, I know how you feel," he said, again. "It does seem monstrous
that the thing should have happened to Claude; but, after all, he's
young, and with a little tact we can pull him out. I've said nothing to
your mother, and don't mean to. No use alarming her needlessly. I've not
said anything to Claude, either. Only known the thing for four or five
days. Don't want to make him restive, or drive him to take the bit
between his teeth. High-spirited young fellow, Claude is. Needs to be
dealt with tactfully. Thing will be, to cut away the ground beneath his
feet without his knowing it--by getting rid of the girl."
"But I know Rosie Fay, father, and she's not--"
"Now, my dear Thor, what _is_ a girl but bad when she's willing to meet
a man clandestinely night after night--?"
"Oh, but she hasn't done it."
"And I tell you she has done it. Ever since last summer. Night after
night."
"Where?" Thor demanded, hoarsely.
"In the woods above Duck Rock. Look here," the father suggested, struck
with a good idea, "the next time Claude says he has an engagement to go
out with Billy Cheever, why don't you follow him--?"
There was both outrage and authority in Thor's abrupt cry, "Father!"
"Oh, I know how you feel. You'd rather trust him. Well, I would myself.
It's the plan I'm going on. We mustn't be too hard on him, must we?
Sympathetic steering is what he wants. Fortunately we're both men of the
world and can accept the situation with no Puritanical hypocrisies. He's
not the first young fellow who's got into the clutches of a hussy--"
It was to keep himself from striking his father down that Thor got out
of the room. For an instant he had seen red; and across the red the word
_parricide_ flashed in letters of fire. It might have been a vision. It
was frightening.
Outside it was a night of dim, spirit-like radiance. The white of the
earth and the violet of the sky were both spangled with lights. Low on
the horizon the full moon was a glorious golden disk.
The air was sweet and cold. As he struck down the avenue, of which the
snow was broken only by his own and his father's footsteps and the
wheels of Bessie's car, he bared his head to cool his forehead and the
hot masses of his hair. He breathed hard; he was aching; his distress
was like that of being roused from a weird, appalling dream. He had not
yet got control of his faculties. He scarcely knew why he had come out,
except that he couldn't stay within.
On nearing the street the buzzing of an electric car reminded him that
Claude was probably coming home. Instinctively he turned his steps away
from meeting him, tramping up the long, white, empty stretch of County
Street.
At Willoughby's Lane he turned up the hill, not for any particular
purpose, but because the tramping there would be a little harder. He
needed exertion. It eased the dull ache of confused inward pain. In the
Willoughby house there was no light except in the hall and in Bessie's
bedroom. Mother and daughter had doubtless taken refuge in the latter
spot to discuss the disastrous turn of their fortunes. Ah, well! There
would probably be nothing to keep him from going to their rescue now.
_Probably!_ He clung to the faint chance offered by the word. He didn't
know the real circumstances--yet. _Probably_ his father had been
accurate in his statements, even though wrong in what he had inferred.
_Probably_ Claude and Rosie had met--night after night--secretly--in the
woods--in the dark. _Probably!_ He stopped dead in his walk; he threw
back his head and groaned to the violet sky; he pulled with both hands
at his collar as though choking. Secretly--in the woods--in the dark! It
was awful--and yet it was entrancing. If Rosie had only come to meet
_him_ like that!--in that mystery!--in that seclusion!--with that
trust!--with that surrender of herself!
"How can I blame Claude?"
It was his first formulated thought. He tramped on again. How could he
blame Claude? Poor Claude! He had his difficulties. No one knew that
better than Thor. And if Rosie loved the boy ...
* * * * *
Below the ridge of the long, wooded hill there was a road running
parallel to County Street. He turned into that. But he began to perceive
to what goal he was tending. He had taken this direction aimlessly; and
yet it was as if his feet had acted of their own accord, without the
guiding impulse of the mind. From a long, straight stem a banner of
smoke floated heavy and luminous against the softer luminosity of the
sky. He knew now where he was going and what he had to do.
But he paused at the gate, when he got there, uncertain as to where at
this hour he should find her. There was a faint light in the mother's
room, but none elsewhere in the house. The moon was by this time high
enough to throw a band of radiance across Thorley's Pond and strike pale
gleams from the glass of the hothouse roofs.
It required some gazing to detect in Rosie's greenhouse the blurred glow
of a lamp. He remembered that there was a desk near this spot at which
she sometimes wrote. She was writing there now--perhaps to Claude.
But she was not writing to Claude; she was making out bills. As
bookkeeper to the establishment, as well as utility woman in general, it
was the one hour in the day when she had leisure for the task. She
raised her head to peer down the long, dim aisle of flowers on hearing
him open the door.
"It's I, Rosie," he called to her, as he passed between banks of
carnations. "Don't be afraid."
She was not afraid, but she was excited. As a matter of fact, she was
saying to herself, "He's found out." It was what she had been expecting.
She had long ago begun to see that his almost daily visits were not on
her mother's account. He had been coming less as a doctor than as a
detective. Very well! If his detecting had been successful, so much the
better. Since the battle had to be fought some time, it couldn't begin
too soon.
She remained seated, her right hand holding the pen, her left lying on
the open pages of the ledger. He spoke before he had fully emerged into
the glow of the lamp.
"Oh, Rosie! What's this about you and Claude?"
Her little face grew hard and defiant. She was not to be deceived by
this wounded, unhappy tone. "Well--what?" she asked, guardedly, looking
up at him.
He stooped. His face was curiously convulsed. It frightened her. "Do you
_love_ him?"
Instinctively she took an attitude of defense, rising and pushing back
her chair, to shield herself behind it. "And what if I do?"
"Then, Rosie, you should have told me."
Again the heart=broken cry seemed to her a bit of trickery to get her
confidence. "Told you? How could I tell you? What should I tell you
for?"
"How long have you loved him?"
Her face was set. The shifting opal lights in her eyes were the fires of
her will. She would speak. She would hide nothing. Let the
responsibility be on Claude. Her avowal was like that of a calamity or a
crime. "I've loved him ever since I knew him."
"And how long is that?"
"It will be five months the day after to-morrow."
"Tell me, Rosie. How did it come about?"
She was still defiant. She put it briefly. "I was in the wood above Duck
Rock. He came by. He spoke to me."
"And you loved him from the first?"
She nodded, with the desperate little air he had long ago learned to
recognize.
"Oh, Rosie, tell me this. Do you love him--much?"
She was quite ready with her answer. It was as well the Mastermans
should know. "I'd die for him."
"Would you, Rosie? And what about him?"
Her lip quivered. "Oh, men are not so ready to die for love as women
are."
He leaned toward her, supporting himself with his hands on the desk.
"And you are ready, Rosie! You really--would?"
She thought he looked wild. He terrified her. She shrank back into the
dimness of a mass of foliage. "Oh, what do you mean? What are you asking
me for? Why do you come here? Go away."
"I'll go presently, Rosie. You won't be sorry I've come. I only want you
to tell me all about it. There are reasons why I want to know."
"Then why don't you ask him?" she demanded, passionately. "He's your
brother."
"Because I want you to tell me the story first."
There was such tenderness in his voice that she grew reassured in spite
of her alarm. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to say first of all that you know I'm your friend."
"You can't be my friend," she said, suspiciously, "unless you're
Claude's friend, too; and Claude wouldn't own to a friend who tried to
part us."
"I don't want to part you, Rosie. I want to bring you together."
The assertion was too much for credence. She was thrown back on the
hypothesis of trickery. "You?"
"Yes, Rosie. Has Claude never told you that he's more to me than any one
in the world, except--" He paused; he panted; he tried to keep it back,
but it forced itself out in spite of his efforts--"except you." Once
having said it, he repeated it: "Except you, Rosie; except--you."
Though he was still leaning toward her across the desk, his head sank.
There was silence between them. It was long before Rosie, the light in
her eyes concentrated to two brilliant, penetrating points, crept
forward from the sheltering mass of foliage. She could hardly speak
above a whisper.
"Except--who?"
He lifted his head. She noticed subconsciously that his face was no
longer wild, but haggard. He spoke gently: "Except you, Rosie. You're
most to me in the world."
As she bent toward him her mouth and eyes betrayed her horror at the
irony of this discovery. She would rather never have known it than know
it now. It was all she could do to gasp the one word, "Me?"
"I shouldn't have told you," he hurried on, apologetically, "but I
couldn't help it. Besides, I want you to understand how utterly I'm your
friend. I ask nothing more than to be allowed to help you and Claude in
every way--"
She cried out. The thing was preposterous. "You're going to do
that--_now_?"
"I'm your big brother, Rosie--the big brother to both of you. That's
what I shall be in future. And what I've said will be a dead secret
between us, won't it? I shouldn't have told you, but I couldn't help it.
It was stronger than me, Rosie. Those things sometimes are. But it's a
secret now, dead and buried. It's as if it hadn't been said, isn't it?
And if I should marry some one else--"
This was too much. It was like the world slipping from her at the minute
she had it within her grasp. The horror was not only in her eyes and
mouth, but in her voice. "Are you going to marry some one else?"
"I might have to, Rosie--for a lot of reasons. It might be my duty. And
now that I can't marry you--"
She uttered a sort of wail. "Oh!"
"Don't be sorry for me, Rosie dear. I can't stand it. I can stand it
better if you're not sorry--"
"But I _am_," she cried, desperately.
"Then I must thank you--only don't be. It will make me grieve the more
for saying what I never should have said. But that's a secret between
us, as I said before, isn't it? And if I do marry--she'll never find it
out, will she? That wouldn't do, would it, Rosie?"
His words struck her as passing all the bounds of practical common
sense. They were so mad that she felt herself compelled to ask for more
assurance. "Are you--in love--with--with _me_?" If the last syllable had
been louder it would have been a scream.
"Oh, Rosie, forgive me! I shouldn't have told you. It was weak. It was
wrong. I only did it to show you how you could trust me. But I should
have showed you that some other way. You'd already told me how it was
between you and Claude, and so it was treachery to him. But I never
dreamed of trying to come between you. Believe me, I didn't. I swear to
you I only want--"
She broke in, panting. She wouldn't have spoken crudely or abruptly if
there had been any other way. But the chance was there. In another
minute it might be too late. "Yes; but when I said that about Claude--"
She didn't know how to go on. He encouraged her. "Yes, Rosie?"
She wrung her hands. "Oh, don't you _see_? When I said that about
Claude--I didn't--I didn't know--"
He hastened to relieve her distress. "You didn't know I cared for you?"
"No!" The word came out with another long wail.
He looked at her curiously. "But what's that got to do with it?"
Her eyes implored him piteously, while she beat the palm of one hand
against the back of the other. It was terrible that he couldn't see what
she meant--and the moments slipping away!
"It wouldn't have made you love Claude any the less, would it?"
She had to say something. If she didn't he would never understand. "Not
love, perhaps; but--"
The sudden coldness in his voice terrified her again--but differently.
"But what, Rosie?"
She cried out, as if the words rent her. "But Claude has no--_money_."
"And I have. Is that it?"
It was no use to deny it. She nodded dumbly. Besides, she counted on his
possession of common sense, though his use of it was slow.
He raised himself from his attitude of leaning on the desk. It was his
turn to take shelter amid the dark foliage behind him. He couldn't bear
to let the lamplight fall too fully on his face. "Is it this, Rosie," he
asked, with an air of bewilderment, "that you'd marry me because I
have--the money?"
It seemed to Rosie that the question gave her reasonable cause for
exasperation. She was almost sobbing as she said: "Well, I can't marry
Claude _without_ money. He can't marry me." A ray was thrown into her
little soul when she gasped in addition, "And there's father and mother
and Matt!"
Thor's expression lost some of its bewilderment because it deepened to
sternness. "But Claude means to marry you, doesn't he?"
She cried out again, with that strange effect of the words rending her.
"I don't--_know_."
He had a moment of wild fear lest his father had been right, after all.
"You don't know? Then--what's your relation to each other?"
"I don't know that, either. Claude won't tell me." She crossed her hands
on her bosom as she said, desperately, "I sometimes think he doesn't
mean anything at all."
The terror of the instant passed. "Oh yes, he does, Rosie. I'll see to
that."
"Do you mean that you'll make him marry me?"
He smiled pitifully. "There'll be no making, Rosie. You leave it to me."
He turned from her not merely because the last word had been spoken, but
through fear lest something might be breaking within himself. On
regaining the white roadway he thought he saw Jasper Fay in the shadow
of the house, but he was too deeply stricken to speak to him. He went up
the hill and farther from the village. It was not yet eight o'clock, but
time had ceased to have measurement. He went up the hill to be alone in
that solitude which was all that for the moment he could endure. He
climbed higher than the houses and the snow-covered gardens; his back
was toward the moon and the glow above the city. The prospect of
reaching the summit gave something for his strong body to strain forward
to.
The ridge, when he got to it, was treeless, wind-swept, and moon-swept.
It was a great white altar, victimless and bare. He felt devastated,
weak. It was a relief, bodily and mental, to sink to his knees--to
fall--to lie at his length. He pressed his hot face into the cool,
consoling whiteness, as a man might let himself weep on a pillow. His
arms were outstretched beyond his head. His fingers pierced beneath the
snow till they touched the tender, nestling mosses. All round him there
was silveriness and silence, and overhead the moon.