SOUTHLOOK
Sara Wrandall's house in the country stood on a wooded knoll
overlooking the Sound. It was rather remotely located, so far as
neighbours were concerned. Her father, Sebastian Gooch, shrewdly
foresaw the day when land in this particular section of the suburban
world would return dollars for the pennies, and wisely bought
thousands of acres: woodland, meadowland, beachland and hills,
inserted between the environs of New York City and the rich towns
up the coast. Years afterward he built a commodious summer home on
the choicest point that his property afforded, named it Southlook,
and transformed that particular part of his wilderness into
a millionaire's paradise, where he could dawdle and putter to his
heart's content, where he could spend his time and his money with
a prodigality that came so late in life to him that he made waste
of both in his haste to live down a rather parsimonious past.
Two miles and a half away, in the heart of a scattered colony of
purse-proud New Yorkers, was the country home of the Wrandalls, an
imposing place and older by far than Southlook. It had descended
from well-worn and time-stained ancestors to Redmond Wrandall,
and, with others of its kind, looked with no little scorn upon the
modern, mushroom structures that sprouted from the seeds of trade.
There was no friendship between the old and the new. Each had
recourse to a bitter contempt for the other, though consolation
was small in comparison.
It was in the wooded by-ways of this despised domain that Challis
Wrandall and Sara, the earthly daughter of Midas, met and loved and
defied all things supernal, for matches are made in heaven. Their
marriage did not open the gates of Nineveh. Sebastian Gooch's
paradise was more completely ostracised than it was before the
disaster. The Wrandalls spoke of it as a disaster.
Clearly the old merchant was not over-pleased with his daughter's
choice, a conclusion permanently established by the alteration he
made in his will a year or two after the marriage. True, he left
the vast estate to his beloved daughter Sara, but he fastened a
stout string to it, and with this string her hands were tied. It
must have occurred to him that Challis was a profligate in more ways
than one, for he deliberately stipulated in his will that Sara was
not to sell a foot of the ground until a period of twenty years had
elapsed. A very polite way, it would seem, of making his investment
safe in the face of considerable odds.
He lived long enough after the making of his will, I am happy to
relate, to find that he had made no mistake. As he preceded his
son-in-law into the Great Beyond by a scant three years, it readily
may be seen that he wrought too well by far. Seventeen unnecessary
years of proscription remained, and he had not intended them for
Sara ALONE. He was not afraid of Sara, but for her.
When the will was read and the condition revealed, Challis Wrandall
took it in perfect good humour. He had the grace to proclaim
in the bosom of his father's family that the old gentleman was a
father-in-law to be proud of. "A canny old boy," he had announced
with his most engaging smile, quite free from rancour or resentment.
Challis was well acquainted with himself.
And so the acres were strapped together snugly and firmly, without
so much as a town-lot protruding.
So impressed was Challis by the farsightedness of his father-in-law
that he forthwith sat him down and made a will of his own. He would
not have it said that Sara's father did a whit better by her than
he would do. He left everything he possessed to his wife, but put
no string to it, blandly implying that all danger would be past
when she came into possession. There was a sort of grim humour in
the way he managed to present himself to view as the real and ready
source of peril.
Among certain of the Wrandall clan there was serious talk of
contesting the will. It was a distinct shock to all of them. Some
one made bold to assert that Challis was not in his right mind at
the time it was executed. For that matter, a couple of uncles on
his mother's side were of the broad opinion that he never had been
mentally adequate.
During a family conference four days after the funeral, Leslie
launched forth at some length and with considerable heat, expressing
an opinion that met with small favour at the outset but which had
its results later on.
"Why," he declaimed, standing before the fireplace with his hands
in his pockets, "if Sara dreamed that we even so much as contemplate
making a fuss about Chal's will, she'd up and chuck the whole blooming
legacy in our faces, and be glad to do it. She's got plenty of her
own. She doesn't need the little that Challis left her. Then, what
would we look like, tell me that? What would the world say? Why,
it would say that she didn't think our money was clean enough to
mix with old man Gooch's. She'd throw it in our faces and the whole
town would snicker."
"Figuratively speaking, young man, figuratively speaking," said
one of the uncles, a stockholder and director.
"What do you mean by that?"
"That she--ahem! That she couldn't actually THROW it."
"I'm not so literal as you, Uncle George."
"Then why use the word THROW?"
"Of course, Uncle George, I don't mean to say she'd have it reduced
to gold coin and stand off and take shots at us. You understand
that, don't you?"
"Leslie," put in his father, "you have a most distressing way
of--er--putting it. Your Uncle George is not so dense as all that."
"I didn't use the word 'throw' in the first place," said Leslie,
with a shrug. "I said 'chuck.'"
"I distinctly heard you use the word 'throw,'" said Uncle George,
very red in the face.
"It was on the second occasion, George," said Mrs. Wrandall, loyal
to Leslie.
"In either case," said her son, "we'd be made ridiculous. That's
the long and short of it. Even if she HANDED it to us on a silver
plate,--figuratively speaking, Uncle George,--we'd be made to look
like thirty cents."
"Well, I'm damn--" began Uncle George, almost forgetting where he
was, but remembering in time. He was afraid to utter a word for
the next ten minutes, and Leslie was spared the interruptions.
It was decided that the will should stand. Later on, the alarming
prospect of Sara's perfect right to marry again came up to mar the
peace of mind of all the Wrandalls, and it grew to be horribly real
without a single move on her part to warrant the fears they were
encouraging.
Sara and Hetty did not stay long in town. The newspapers announced
the return of Challis Wrandall's widow and reporters sought her
out for interviews. The old interest was revived and columns were
printed about the murder at Burton's Inn, with sharp editorial
comments on the failure of the police to clear up the mystery.
The woods were green and the earth was redolent of rich spring
odours; wild flowers peeped shyly from the leaf-strewn soil in the
shadow of the trees; some, more bold than others, came down to
the roadway, and from the banks and hedges smiled saucily upon all
who passed; the hillsides were like spotless carpets, the meadows
a riot of clover hues. The world was light with the life of the
new-born year, for who shall say that the year does not begin with
the birth of spring? May! May, when the earth begins to bear, not
January when it sets out in sorrow to bury its dead. New Year's
day it is, when the first tiny flower of spring comes to life and
smiles oh the face of Mother Earth, and the sun is warm with the
love of a gentle father.
"I shall ask Leslie down for the week-end," said Sara, the third
day after their arrival in the country. The house was huge and
lonely, and time hung rather heavily despite the glorious uplift
of spring.
Hetty looked up quickly from her book. A look of dismay flickered
in her eyes for an instant and then gave way to the calmness that
had come to dwell in their depths of late. Her lips parted in the
sudden impulse to cry out against the plan, but she checked the
words. For a moment, her dark, questioning eyes studied the face
of her benefactress; then, as if nothing had been revealed to her,
she allowed her gaze to drift pensively out toward the sunset sea.
They were sitting on the broad verandah overlooking the Sound. The
dusk of evening was beginning to steal over the earth. She laid
her book aside.
"Will you telephone in to him after dinner, Hetty?" went on Sara,
after a long period of silence.
Again Hetty started. This time a look of actual pain flashed in
her eyes.
"Would not a note by post be more certain to find him in the--"
she began hurriedly.
"I dislike writing notes," said Sara calmly. "Of course, dear, if
you feel that you'd rather not telephone to him, I can--"
"I dare say I am finicky, Sara," apologised Hetty in quick contrition.
"Of course, he is your brother. I should remem--"
"My brother-in-law, dear," said Sara, a trifle too literally.
"He will come often to your house," went on Hetty rapidly. "I must
make the best of it."
"He is your friend, Hetty. He admires you."
"I cannot see him through your eyes, Sara."
"But he IS charming and agreeable, you'll admit," persisted the
other.
"He is very kind, and he is devoted to you. I should like him for
that."
"You have no cause for disliking him."
"I do not dislike him. I--I am--Oh, you always have been so
thoughtful, so considerate, Sara, I can't understand your failing
to see how hard it is for me to--to--well, to endure his open-hearted
friendship."
Sara was silent for a moment. "You draw a pretty fine line, Hetty,"
she said gently.
Hetty flushed. "You mean that there is little to choose between
wife and brother? That isn't quite fair. You know everything, he
knows nothing. I wear a mask for him; you have seen into the very
heart of me. It isn't the same."
Sara came over and stood beside the girl's chair. After a moment of
indecision, she laid her hand on Hetty's shoulder. The girl looked
up, the ever-recurring question in her eyes.
"We haven't spoken of--of these things in many months, Hetty."
"Not since Mrs. Wrandall and Vivian came to Nice. I was upset--dreadfully
upset then, Sara. I don't know how I managed to get through with
it."
"But you managed it," pronounced Sara. Her fingers seemed to tighten
suddenly on the girl's shoulder. "I think we were quite wonderful,
both of us. It wasn't easy for me."
"Why did we come back to New York, Sara?" burst out Hetty, clasping
her friend's hand as if suddenly spurred by terror. "We were happy
over there. And free!"
"Listen, my dear," said Sara, a hard note growing in her voice:
"this is my home. I do not love it, but I can see no reason for
abandoning it. That is why we came back to New York."
Hetty pressed her friend's hand to her lips. "Forgive me," she
cried impulsively. "I shouldn't have complained. It was detestable."
"Besides," went on Sara evenly, "you were quite free to remain on
the other side. I left it to you."
"You gave me a week to decide," said Hetty, in a hurried manner of
speaking. "I--I took but twenty-four hours--less than that. Over
night, you remember. I love you, Sara. I could not leave you. All
that night I could feel you pulling at my heart-strings, pulling
me closer and closer, and holding me. You were in your room, I in
mine, and yet all the time you seemed to be bending over me in the
darkness, urging me to stay with you and love you and be loved by
you. It couldn't have been a dream."
"It was not a dream," said Sara, with a queer smile.
"You DO love me?" tensely.
"I DO love you," was the firm answer. Sara was staring out across
the water, her eyes big and as black as night itself. She seemed
to be looking far beyond the misty lights that bobbled with nearby
schooners, far beyond the yellow mass on the opposite shore where
a town lay cradled in the shadows, far into the fast darkening sky
that came up like a wall out of the east.
Hetty's fingers tightened in a warmer clasp. Unconsciously perhaps,
Sara's grip on the girl's shoulder tightened also: unconsciously,
for her thoughts were far away. The younger woman's pensive gaze
rested on the peaceful waters below, taking in the slow approach of
the fog that was soon to envelop the land. Neither spoke for many
minutes: inscrutable thinkers, each a prey to thoughts that leaped
backward to the beginning and took up the puzzle at its inception.
"I wonder--" began Hetty, her eyes narrowing with the intensity of
thought. She did not complete the sentence.
Sara answered the unspoken question. "It will never be different
from what it is now, unless you make it so."
Hetty started. "How could you have known what I was thinking?" she
cried in wonder.
"It is what you are always thinking, my dear. You are always asking
yourself when will I turn against you."
"Sara!"
"Your own intelligence should supply the answer to all the questions
you are asking of yourself. It is too late for me to turn against
you." She abruptly removed her hand from Hetty's shoulder and walked
to the edge of the verandah. For the first time, the English girl
was conscious of pain. She drew her arm up and cringed. She pulled
the light scarf about her bare shoulders.
The butler appeared in the doorway.
"The telephone, if you please, Miss Castleton. Mr. Leslie Wrandall
is calling."
The girl stared. "For me, Watson?"
"Yes, Miss. I forgot to say that he called up this afternoon while
you were out," very apologetically, with a furtive glance at Mrs.
Wrandall, who had turned.
"Loss of memory, Watson, is a fatal affliction," she said, with a
smile.
"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall. I don't see 'ow it 'appened."
"It is not likely to happen again."
"No, madam."
Hetty had risen, visibly agitated.
"What shall I say to him, Sara?" she cried.
"Apparently it is he who has something to say to you," said the
other, still smiling. "Wait and see what it is. Please don't neglect
to say that we'd like to have him over Sunday."
"A box of flowers has just come up from the station for you, Miss,"
said Watson.
Hetty was very white as she passed into the house. Mrs. Wrandall
resumed her contemplation of the fog-screened Sound.
"Shall I fetch you a wrap, ma'am?" asked Watson, hesitating.
"I am coming in, Watson. Open the box of flowers for Miss Castleton.
Is there a fire in the library?"
"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall."
"Mr. Leslie will be out on Saturday. Tell Mrs. Conkling."
"The evening train, ma'am?"
"No. The eleven-thirty. He will be here for luncheon."
When Hetty hurried into the library a few minutes later, her
manner was that of one considerably disturbed by something that
has transpired almost on the moment. Her cheeks were flushed and
her eyes were reflectors of a no uncertain distress of mind. Mrs.
Wrandall was standing before the fireplace, an exquisite figure
in the slinky black evening gown which she affected in these days.
Her perfectly modelled neck and shoulders gleamed like pink marble
in the reflected glow of the burning logs. She wore no jewellery,
but there was a single white rose in her dark hair, where it had
been placed by the whimsical Hetty an hour earlier as they left
the dinner table.
"He is coming out on the eleven-thirty, Sara," said the girl
nervously, "unless you will send the motor in for him. The body of
his car is being changed and it's in the shop. He must have been
jesting when he said he would pay for the petrol--I should have
said gasoline."
Sara laughed. "You will know him better, my dear," she said. "Leslie
is very light-hearted."
"He suggested bringing a friend," went on Hetty hurriedly. "A Mr.
Booth, the portrait painter."
"I met him in Italy. He is charming. You will like HIM, too, Hetty."
The emphasis did not escape notice.
"It seems that he is spending a fortnight in the village, this Mr.
Booth, painting spring lambs for rest and recreation, Mr. Leslie
says."
"Then he is at our very gates," said Sara, looking up suddenly.
"I wonder if he can be the man I saw yesterday at the bridge,"
mused Hetty. "Is he tall?"
"I really can't say. He's rather vague. It was six or seven years
ago."
"It was left that Mr. Wrandall is to come out on the eleven-thirty,"
explained Hetty. "I thought you wouldn't like sending either of
the motors in."
"And Mr. Booth?"
"We are to send for him after Mr. Wrandall arrives. He is stopping
at the inn, wherever that may be."
"Poor fellow!" sighed Sara, with a grimace. "I am sure he will like
us immensely if he has been stopping at the inn."
Hetty stood staring down at the blazing logs for a full minute
before giving expression to the thought that troubled her.
"Sara," she said, meeting her friend's eyes with a steady light
in her own, "why did Mr. Wrandall ask for me instead of you? It is
you he is coming to visit, not me. It is your house. Why should--"
"My dear," said Sara glibly, "I am merely his sister-in-law. It
wouldn't be necessary to ask me if he should come. He knows he is
welcome."
"Then why should he feel called upon to--"
"Some men like to telephone, I suppose," said the other coolly.
"I wonder if you will ever understand how I feel about--about
certain things, Sara."
"What, for instance?"
"Well, his very evident interest in me," cried the girl hotly. "He
sends me flowers,--this is the second box this week,--and he is so
kind, so VERY friendly, Sara, that I can't bear it--I really can't."
Mrs. Wrandall stared at her. "You can't very well send him about
his business," she said, "unless he becomes more than friendly.
Now, can you?"
"But it seems so--so horrible, so beastly," groaned the girl.
Sara faced her squarely. "See here, Hetty," she said levelly, "we
have made our bed, you and I. We must lie in it--together. If Leslie
Wrandall chooses to fall in love with you, that is his affair, not
ours. We must face every condition. In plain words, we must play
the game."
"What could be more appalling than to have him fall in love with
me?"
"The other way 'round would be more dramatic, I should say."
"Good God, Sara!" cried the girl in horror. "How can you even speak
of such a thing?"
"After all, why shouldn't--" began Sara, but stopped in the middle
of her suggestion, with the result that it had its full effect without
being uttered in so many cold-blooded words. The girl shuddered.
"I wish, Sara, you would let me unburden myself completely to you,"
she pleaded, seizing her friend's hands. "You have forbidden me--"
Sara jerked her hands away. Her eyes flashed. "I do not want to
hear it," she cried fiercely. "Never, never! Do you understand?
It is your secret. I will not share it with you. I should hate you
if I knew everything. As it is, I love you because you are a woman
who suffered at the hand of one who made me suffer. There is nothing
more to say. Don't bring up the subject again. I want to be your
friend for ever, not your confidante. There is a distinction. You
may be able to see how very marked it is in our case, Hetty. What
one does not know, seldom hurts."
"But I want to justify myself--"
"It isn't necessary," cut in the other so peremptorily that the
girl's eyes spread into a look of anger. Whereupon Sara Wrandall
threw her arm about her and drew her down beside her on the
chaise-longue. "I didn't mean to be harsh," she cried. "We must
not speak of the past, that's all. The future is not likely to hurt
us, dear. Let us avoid the past."
"The future!" sighed the girl, staring blankly before her.
"To appreciate what it is to be," said the other, "you have but to
think of what it might have been."
"I know," said Hetty, in a low voice. "And yet I sometimes wonder
if--"
Sara interrupted. "You are paying me, dear, instead of the law,"
she said gently. "I am not a harsh creditor, am I?"
"My life belongs to you. I give it cheerfully, even gladly."
"So you have said before. Well, if it belongs to me, you might at
least permit me to develop it as I would any other possession. I
take it as an investment. It will probably fluctuate."
"Now you are jesting!"
"Perhaps," said Sara laconically.
The next morning Hetty set forth for her accustomed tramp over the
roads that wound through the estate. Sara, the American, dawdled
at home, resenting the chill spring drizzle that did not in the
least discourage the Englishwoman. The mistress of the house and
of the girl's destiny stood in the broad French window watching her
as she strode springily, healthily down the maple lined avenue in
the direction of the gates. The gardeners doffed their caps to her
as she passed, and also looked after her with surreptitious glances.
There was a queer smile on Sara's lips that remained long after the
girl was lost to view beyond the lodge. It was still on her lips
but gone from her eyes as she paused beside the old English table
to bury her nose in one of the gorgeous roses that Leslie had sent
out to Hetty the day before. They were all about the room, dozens
of them. The girl had insisted on having them downstairs instead of
in her own little sitting-room, for which they plainly were intended.
A nasty sea turn had brought lowering grey skies and a dreary,
enveloping mist that never quite assumed the dignity of a drizzle
and yet blew wet and cold to the very marrow of the bones. Hetty
was used to such weather. Her English blood warmed to it. As she
strode briskly across the meadow-land road in the direction of the
woods that lay ahead, a soft ruddy glow crept up to her cheeks,
and a sparkle of joy into her eyes. She walked strongly, rapidly.
Her straight, lithe young figure was a joyous thing to behold.
High boots, short skirt, a loose jacket and a broad felt hat made
up her costume. She was graceful, adorable; a young, healthy,
beautiful creature in whom the blood surged quickly, strongly: the
type of woman men are wont to classify as "ineffably feminine,"
though why we should differentiate is no small mystery unless
there really is such a thing as one woman possessing an adorably
feminine quality denied to her sisters. Be that as it may, there
IS a distinction and men pride themselves on knowing it. Hetty was
alluringly feminine. Leaving out the matter of morals, whatever
they are, and coming right up to her as an example of her sex, pure
and simple if you please, we are bound to say that she was perfect.
The best thing we can say of Challis Wrandall is that he took the
same view of her that we should, and fell in love with her. He
would have married her if he could, there isn't much doubt as to
that, no matter what she had been before he knew her or what she
was at the time of his discovery. No more is it to be considered
unique that his brother should have experienced a similar interest
in her, knowing even less.
She was the sort of girl one falls in love with and remembers it
the rest of his life.
Take her now, for instance, as she swings along the highway, fresh,
trim and graceful, her chin uptilted, her cheeks warm, her eyes
clear and as blue as sapphires, and we experience the most intense,
unreasoning desire to be near her, at her side, where hands could
touch her and the very spell of her creep out over one to make a
man of him.
The kind of woman one wants to draw close to him because his heart
is sweet.
She had the blood of a fellow creature on her hands--the blood of
one of us--and yet we men will overlook one commandment for another.
It is a matter of choice.
What of her present position in the house and in the heart of the
one woman who of all those we know is abnormally unfeminine in that
she subordinates the natural and instinctive animosity of woman
toward another who robs her of a husband, no matter how unworthy
or how hateful he may have been to her behind the screen with which
she hides her sores from the world. The answer is ready: Hetty
was a slave bound to an extraordinary condition. There had been no
coercion on the part of Challis Wrandall's wife; no actual restraint
had been set upon the girl. The situation was a plain one from every
point of view: Hetty owed her life to Sara, she would have paid
with her life's blood the debt she owed. It had become perfectly
natural for her to consider herself a willing, grateful prisoner--a
prisoner on parole. She would not, could not abuse the parole. She
loved her gaoler with a love that knew no bounds; she loved the
walls Sara had thrown up about her; she was content to live and
die in the luxurious cell, attended by love and kindness and mercy.
After all, Hetty was even more feminine than we seem able to convey
in words.
Not in that she lacked in pride or sensitiveness, but that she
possessed to a self-satisfying degree the ability to subordinate
both of these to a loyalty that had no bounds. There were fine
feelings in Hetty. She was honest with herself. She did not look
beyond her present horizon for brighter skies. They were as bright
as they could ever be, of that she was sure; her hopes lay within
the small circumference that Sara Wrandall made possible for her.
She knew that her peril, her ruin lay in the desire to step outside
that narrow circle, for out there the world was cold and merciless.
She lived as one charmed by some powerful influence, and was content.
Not once had the fear entered her soul that Sara would turn against
her. Her trust in Wrandall's wife was infinite. In her simple,
devoted heart she could feel no prick of dread so far as the present
was concerned. The past was dreadful, but it was the past, and its
loathsomeness was moderated by subtle contrast with the present.
As for the future, it belonged to Sara Wrandall. It was safe.
If Sara were to decide that she must be given up to the law, all
well and good. She could meet her fate with a smile for Sara, and
with love in her heart. She could pay in full if the demand was
made by the wife of the man she had left in the grim little upstairs
room at Burton's Inn on that never-to-be-forgotten night in March.
The one great, inexplicable mystery to her was the heart of Sara
Wrandall. She could not fathom it.
She could understand her own utter subjection to the will of the
other woman; she could explain it satisfactorily to herself, and
she could have explained it to the world. Self-preservation in the
beginning, self-surrender as time went on, self-sacrifice as the
prerogative.
And so it was, on this grey spring day, that she gazed undaunted at
the world, with the shadows all about her, and hummed a sprightly
tune through warm red lips that were kissed by the morning mist.
She came to the bridge by the mill, long since deserted and now
a thing of ruin and decay. A man in knickerbockers stood leaning
against the rail, idly gazing down at the trickling stream below.
The brier pipe that formed the circuit between hand and lips sent
up soft blue coils to float away on the drizzle.
She passed behind him, with a single furtive, curious glance at
his handsome, undisturbed profile, and in that glance recognised
him as the man she had seen the day before.
When she was a dozen rods away, the tall man turned his face from
the stream and sent after her the long-restrained look. There was
something akin to cautiousness in that look of his, as if he were
afraid that she might turn her head suddenly and catch him at it.
Something began stirring in his heart, the nameless something that
awakens when least expected. He felt the subtle, sweet femininity
of her as she passed. It lingered with him as he looked.
She turned the bend in the road a hundred yards away. For many
minutes he studied the stream below without really seeing it.
Then he straightened up, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and set
off slowly in her wake, although he had been walking in quite the
opposite direction when he came to the bridge,--and on a mission
of some consequence, too.
There was the chance that he would meet her coming back.