THE LOVE OF THE GODS
Two days later the majority of the people had left Roya-Neh, and the
remainder were preparing to make their adieux to the young chatelaine by
proxy; for Geraldine had kept her room since the night of the masked
fête, and nobody except Kathleen and Dr. Bailey had seen her.
"Fashionable fidgets," said Dr. Bailey, in answer to amiable inquiries;
"the girl has been living on her nerves, like the rest of you, only she
can't stand as much as you can."
To Duane he said, in reply to persistent questions:
"As a plain and unromantic proposition, young man, it may be her liver.
God alone knows with what young women stuff their bodies in those
bucolic solitudes."
To Kathleen he said, after questioning her and listening in silence to
her guarded replies:
"I don't know what is the matter, Mrs. Severn. The girl is extremely
nervous. She acts, to me, as though she had something on her mind, but
she insists that she hasn't. If I were to be here, I might come to some
conclusion within the next day or two."
Which frightened Kathleen, and she asked whether anything serious might
be anticipated.
"Not at all," he said.
So, as he was taking the next train, there was nothing to do. He left a
prescription and whizzed away to the railroad station with the last
motor-load of guests.
There remained only Duane, Rosalie Dysart, Grandcourt, and Sylvia Quest,
a rather subdued and silent group on the terrace, unresponsive to
Scott's unfeigned gaiety to find himself comparatively alone and free to
follow his own woodland predilections once more.
"A cordial host you are," observed Rosalie; "you're guests are scarcely
out of sight before you break into inhuman chuckles."
"Speed the parting," observed Scott, in excellent spirits; "that's the
truest hospitality."
"I suppose your unrestrained laughter will be our parting portion in a
day or two," she said, amused.
"No; I don't mind a few people. Do you want to come and look for
scarabs?"
"Scarabs? Do you imagine you're in Egypt, my poor friend?"
Scott sniffed: "Didn't you know we had a few living species around here?
Regular scarabs. Kathleen and I found three the other day--one a regular
beauty with two rhinoceros horns on the thorax and iridescent green and
copper tinted wing-covers. Do you want to help me hunt for some more?
You'll have to put on overshoes, for they're in the cow-yards."
Rosalie, intensely bored, thanked him and declined. Later she opened a
shrimp-pink sunshade and, followed by Grandcourt, began to saunter about
the lawn in plain sight, as people do preliminary to effacing themselves
without exciting comment.
But there was nobody to comment on what they did; Duane was reading a
sporting-sheet, souvenir of the departed Bunbury; Sylvia sat pallid and
preoccupied, cheek resting against her hand, looking out over the
valley. Her brother, her only living relative, was supposed to have come
up that morning to take her to the next house party on the string which
linked the days of every summer for her. But Stuyvesant had not arrived;
and the chances were that he would turn up within a day or two, if not
too drunk to remember her.
So Sylvia, who was accustomed to waiting for her brother, sat very
colourless and quiet by the terrace parapet, pale blue eyes resting on
the remoter hills--not always, for at intervals she ventured a furtive
look at Duane, and there was something of stealth and of fright in the
stolen glance.
As for Scott, he sat on the parapet, legs swinging, fussing with a pair
of binoculars and informing the two people behind him--who were not
listening--that he could distinguish a black-billed cuckoo from a
thrasher at six hundred yards.
Which edified neither Sylvia nor Duane, but the boy continued to impart
information with unimpaired cheerfulness until Kathleen came out from
the house.
"How's Sis?" he inquired.
"I think she has a headache," replied Kathleen, looking at Duane.
"Could I see her?" he asked.
Kathleen said gently that Geraldine did not feel like seeing anybody at
that time. A moment later, in obedience to Scott's persistent clamouring
for scarabs, she went across the lawn with the young master of Roya-Neh,
resigned to the inevitable in the shape of two-horned scarabs or
black-billed cuckoos.
It had always been so with her; it would always be so. Long ago the
Seagrave twins had demanded all she had to give; now, if Geraldine asked
less, Scott exacted double. And she gave--how happily, only her Maker
and her conscience knew.
Duane was still reading--or he had all the appearance of reading--when
Sylvia lifted her head from her hand and turned around with an effort
that cost her what colour had remained under the transparent skin of her
oval face.
"Duane," she said, "it occurred to me just now that you might have
really mistaken what I said and did the other night." She hesitated,
nerving herself to encounter his eyes, lifted and levelled across the
top of his paper at her.
He waited; she retained enough self-command to continue with an effort
at lightness:
"Of course it was all carnival fun--my pretending to mistake you for Mr.
Dysart. You understood it, didn't you?"
"Why, of course," he said, smiling.
She went on: "I--don't exactly remember what I said--I was trying to
mystify you. But it occurred to me that perhaps it was rather imprudent
to pretend to be on--on such impossible terms with Mr. Dysart----"
There was something too painful in her effort for him to endure. He said
laughingly, not looking at her:
"Oh, I wasn't ass enough to be deceived, Sylvia. Don't worry, little
girl." And he resumed the study of his paper.
Minutes passed--terrible minutes for one of them, who strove to find
relief in his careless reassurance, tried desperately to believe him, to
deceive that intuition which seldom fails her sex.
He, with the print blurred and meaningless before him, sat miserable,
dumb with the sympathy he could not show, hot with the anger he dared
not express. He thought of Dysart as he had revealed himself, now gone
back to town to face that little crop of financial rumours concerning
the Algonquin that persisted so wickedly and would not be quieted. For
the first time in his life, probably, Dysart was compelled to endure the
discomforts of a New York summer--more discomforts this summer than mere
dust and heat and noise. For men who had always been on respectful
financial terms with Dysart and his string of banks and his Algonquin
enterprise were holding aloof from him; men who had figured for years in
the same columns of print where his name was so often seen as director
and trustee and secretary--fellow-members who served for the honour of
serving on boards of all sorts, charity boards, hospital, museum, civic
societies--these men, too, seemed to be politely, pleasantly, even
smilingly edging away from him in some indefinable manner.
Which seemed to force him toward certain comparatively newcomers among
the wealthy financiers of the metropolis--brilliant, masterful, restless
men from the West, whose friendship in the beginning he had sought,
deeming himself farsighted.
Now that his vision had become normally adjusted he cared less for this
intimacy which it was too late to break--at least this was not the time
to break it with money becoming unbelievably scarcer every day and a
great railroad man talking angrily, and another great railroad man
preaching caution at a time when the caution of the man in the Street
might mean something so serious to Dysart that he didn't care to think
about it.
Dysart had gone back to New York in company with several pessimistic
gentlemen--who were very open about backing their fancy; and their fancy
fell on that old, ramshackle jade, Hard Times, by Speculation out of
Folly. According to them there was no hope of her being scratched or
left at the post.
"She'll run like a scared hearse-horse," said young Grandcourt gloomily.
There was reason for his gloom. Unknown to his father he had invested
heavily in Dysart's schemes. It was his father's contempt that he feared
more than ruin.
So Dysart had gone to town, leaving behind him the utter indifference of
a wife, the deep contempt of a man; and a white-faced girl alone with
her memories--whatever they might be--and her thoughts, which were
painful if one might judge by her silent, rigid abstraction, and the
lower lip which, at moments, escaped, quivering, from the close-set
teeth.
When Duane rose, folding his paper with a carelessly pleasant word or
two, she looked up in a kind of naïve terror--like a child startled at
prospect of being left alone. It was curious how those adrift seemed
always to glide his way. It had always been so; even stray cats followed
him in the streets; unhappy dogs trotted persistently at his heels; many
a journey had he made to the Bide-a-wee for some lost creature's sake;
many a softly purring cat had he caressed on his way through life--many
a woman.
As he strolled toward the eastern end of the terrace, Sylvia looked
after him; and, suddenly, unable to endure isolation, she rose and
followed as instinctively as her lesser sisters-errant.
It was the trotting of little footsteps behind him on the gravel that
arrested him. A glance at her face was enough; vexed, shocked, yet every
sympathy instantly aroused, he resigned himself to whatever might be
required of him; and within him a bitter mirth stirred--acrid,
unpleasant; but his smile indicated only charmed surprise.
"I didn't suppose you'd care for a stroll with me," he said; "it is
exceedingly nice of you to give me the chance."
"I didn't want to be left alone," she said.
"It is rather quiet here since our gay birds have migrated," he said in
a matter-of-fact way. "Which direction shall we take?"
"I--don't care."
"The woods?"
"No," with a shudder so involuntary that he noticed it.
"Well, then, we'll go cross country----"
She looked at her thin, low shoes and then at him.
"Certainly," he said, "that won't do, will it?"
She shook her head.
They were passing the Lodge now where his studio was and where he had
intended to pack up his canvases that afternoon.
"I'll brew you a cup of tea if you like," he said; "that is, if it's not
too unconventional to frighten you."
She smiled and nodded. Behind the smile her heavy thoughts throbbed on:
How much did this man know? How much did he suspect? And if he
suspected, how good he was in every word to her--how kind and gentle and
high-minded! And the anguish in her smile caused him to turn hastily to
the door and summon old Miller to bring the tea paraphernalia.
There was nothing to look at in the studio; all the canvases lay roped
in piles ready for the crates; but Sylvia's gaze remained on them as
though even the rough backs of the stretchers fascinated her.
"My father was an artist. After he married he did not paint. My mother
was very wealthy, you know.... It seems a pity."
"What? Wealth?" he asked, smiling.
"N-no. I mean it seems a little tragic to me that father never continued
to paint."
Miller's granddaughter came in with the tea. She was a very little girl
with yellow hair and big violet eyes. After she had deposited
everything, she went over to Duane and held up her mouth to be kissed.
He laughed and saluted her. It was a reward for service which she had
suggested when he first came to Roya-Neh; and she trotted away in great
content.
Sylvia's indifferent gaze followed her; then she sipped the tea Duane
offered.
"Do you remember your father?" he asked pleasantly.
"Why, yes. I was fourteen when he died. I remember mother, too. I was
seven."
Duane said, not looking at her: "It's about the toughest thing that can
happen to a girl. It's tough enough on a boy."
"It was very hard," she said simply.
"Haven't you any relatives except your brother Stuyvesant--" he began,
and checked himself, remembering that a youthful aunt of hers had eloped
under scandalous circumstances, and at least one uncle was too notorious
even for the stomachs of the society that whelped him.
She let it pass in silence, as though she had not heard. Later she
declined more tea and sat deep in her chair, fingers linked under her
chin, lids lowered.
After a while, as she did not move or speak, he ventured to busy himself
with collecting his brushes, odds and ends of studio equipment. He
scraped several palettes, scrubbed up some palette-knives, screwed the
tops on a dozen tubes of colour, and fussed and messed about until there
seemed to be nothing further to do. So he came back and seated himself,
and, looking up, saw the big tears stealing from under her closed lids.
He endured it as long as he could. Nothing was said. He leaned nearer
and laid his hand over hers; and at the contact she slipped from the
chair, slid to her knees, and laid her head on the couch beside him,
both hands covering her face, which had turned dead white.
Minute after minute passed with no sound, no movement except as he
passed his hand over her forehead and hair. He knew what to do when
those who were adrift floated into Port Mallett. And sometimes he did
more than was strictly required, but never less. Toward sundown she
began to feel blindly for her handkerchief. He happened to possess a
fresh one and put it into her groping hand.
When she was ready to rise she did so, keeping her back toward him and
standing for a while busy with her swollen eyes and disordered hair.
"Before we go we must have tea together again," he said with perfectly
matter-of-fact cordiality.
"Y-yes." The voice was very, very small.
"And in town, too, Sylvia. I had no idea what a companionable girl you
are--how much we have in common. You know silence is the great test of
mutual confidence and understanding. You'll let me see you in town,
won't you?"
"Yes."
"That will be jolly. I suppose now that you and I ought to be thinking
about dressing for dinner."
She assented, moved away a step or two, halted, and, still with her back
turned, held out her hand behind her. He took it, bent and kissed it.
"See you at dinner," he said cheerfully.
And she went out very quietly, his handkerchief pressed against her
eyes.
He came back into the studio, swung nervously toward the couch, turned
and began to pace the floor.
"Oh, Lord," he said; "the rottenness of it all--the utter rottenness."
* * * * *
Dinner that night was not a very gay function; after coffee had been
served, the small group seemed to disintegrate as though by some
prearrangement, Rosalie and Grandcourt finding a place for themselves in
the extreme western shadow of the terrace parapet, Kathleen returning to
the living-room, where she had left her embroidery.
Scott, talking to Sylvia and Duane, continued to cast restless glances
toward the living-room until he could find the proper moment to get
away. And in a few minutes Duane saw him seated, one leg crossed over
the other, a huge volume on "Scientific Conservation of Natural
Resources" open on his knees, seated as close to Kathleen as he could
conveniently edge, perfectly contented, apparently, to be in her
vicinity.
From moment to moment, as her pretty hands performed miracles in tinted
silks, she lifted her eyes and silently inspected the boy who sat
absorbed in his book. Perhaps old memories of a child seated in the
schoolroom made tender the curve of her lips as she turned again to her
embroidery; perhaps a sentiment more recent made grave the beautiful
lowered eyes.
Sylvia, seated at the piano, idly improvising, had unconsciously drifted
into the "Menuet d'Exaudet," and Duane's heart began to quicken as he
stood listening and looking out through the open windows at the stars.
How long he stood there he did not know; but when, at length, missing
the sound of the piano, he looked around, Sylvia was already on the
stairs, looking back at him as she moved upward.
"Good-night," she called softly; "I am very tired," and paused as he
came forward and mounted to the step below where she waited.
"Good-night, Miss Quest," he said, with that nice informality that women
always found so engaging. "If you have nothing better on hand in the
morning, let's go for a climb. I've discovered a wild-boar's nest under
the Golden Dome, and if you'd like to get a glimpse of the little,
furry, striped piglings, I think we can manage it."
She thanked him with her eyes, held out her thin, graceful hand of a
schoolgirl, then turned slowly and continued her ascent.
As he descended, Kathleen, looking up from her embroidery, made him a
sign, and he stood still.
"Where are you going?" asked Scott, as she rose and passed him.
"I'm coming back in a moment."
Scott restlessly resumed his book, raising his head from time to time as
though listening for her return, fidgeting about, now examining the
embroidery she had left on the lamp-lit table, now listlessly running
over the pages that had claimed his close attention while she had been
near him.
Across the hall, in the library, Duane stood absently twisting an
unlighted cigar, and Kathleen, her hand on his shoulder, eyes lifted in
sweet distress, was searching for words that seemed to evade her.
He cut the knot without any emotion:
"I know what you are trying to say, Kathleen. It is true that there has
been a wretched misunderstanding, but if I know Geraldine at all I know
that a mere misunderstanding will not do any permanent harm. It is
something else that--worries me."
"Oh, Duane, I know! I know! She cannot marry you--in honour--until
that--that terrible danger is eliminated. She will not, either.
But--don't give her up! Be with her--with us in this crisis--during it!
See us through it, Duane; she is well worth what she costs us both--and
costs herself."
"She must marry me now," he said. "I want to fight this thing with all
there is in me and in her, and in my love for her and hers for me. I
can't fight it in this blind, aloof way--this thing that is my
rival--that stands with its claw embedded in her body warning me back!
The horror of it is in the blind, intangible, abstract force that is
against me. I can't fight it aloof from her; I can't take her away from
it unless I have her in my arms to guard, to inspire, to comfort, to
watch. Can't you see, Kathleen, that I must have her every second of the
time?"
"She will not let you run the risk," murmured Kathleen. "Duane, she had
a dreadful night--she broke down so utterly that it scared me. She is
horribly frightened; her nervous demoralisation is complete. For the
first time, I think, she is really terrified. She says it is hopeless,
that her will and nerve are undermined, her courage contaminated....
Hour after hour I sat with her; she made me tell her about her
grandfather--about what I knew of the--the taint in her family."
"Those things are merely predispositions," he said. "Self-command makes
them harmless."
"I told her that. She says that they are living sparks that will
smoulder while life endures."
"Suppose they are," he said; "they can never flame unless nursed....
Kathleen, I want to see her----"
"She will not."
"Has she spoken at all of me?"
"Yes."
"Bitterly?"
"Y-yes. I don't know what you did. She is very morbid just now, anyway;
very desperate. But I know that, unconsciously, she counts on an
adjustment of any minor personal difficulty with you.... She loves you
dearly, Duane."
He passed an unsteady hand across his eyes.
"She must marry me. I can't stand aloof from this battle any longer."
"Duane, she will not. I--she said some things--she is morbid, I tell
you--and curiously innocent--in her thoughts--concerning herself and
you. She says she can never marry."
"Exactly what did she say to you?"
Kathleen hesitated; the intimacy of the subject left her undecided; then
very seriously her pure, clear gaze met his:
"She will not marry, for your own sake, and for the sake of
any--children. She has evidently thought it all out.... I must tell you
how it is. There is no use in asking her; she will never consent, Duane,
as long as she is afraid of herself. And how to quiet that fear by
exterminating the reason for it I don't know--" Her voice broke
pitifully. "Only stand by us, Duane. Don't go away just now. You were
packing to go; but please don't leave me just yet. Could you arrange to
remain for a while?"
"Yes, I'll arrange it.... I'm a little troubled about my father--" He
checked himself. "I could run down to town for a day or two and
return----"
"Is Colonel Mallett ill?" she asked.
"N-no.... These are rather strenuous times--or threaten to be. Of course
the Half-Moon is as solid as a rock. But even the very, very great are
beginning to fuss.... And my father is not young, Kathleen. So I thought
I'd like to run down and take him out to dinner once or twice--to a
roof-garden or something, you know. It's rather pathetic that men of his
age, grown gray in service, should feel obliged to remain in the
stifling city this summer."
"Of course you must go," she said; "you couldn't even hesitate. Is your
mother worried?"
"I don't suppose she has the slightest notion that there is anything to
worry over. And there isn't, I think. She and Naïda will be in the
Berkshires; I'll go up and stay with them later--when Geraldine is all
right again," he added cheerfully.
Scott, fidgeting like a neglected pup, came wandering into the hall,
book in hand.
"For the love of Mike," he said impatiently, "what have you two got to
talk about all night?"
"My son," observed Duane, "there are a few subjects for conversation
which do not include the centipede and the polka-dotted dickey-bird.
These subjects Kathleen and I furtively indulge in when we can arrange
to elude you."
Scott covered a yawn and glanced at Kathleen.
"Is Geraldine all right?" he asked with all the healthy indifference of
a young man who had never been ill, and was, therefore, incapable of
understanding illness in others.
"Certainly, she's all right," said Duane. And to Kathleen: "I believe
I'll venture to knock at her door----"
"Oh, no, Duane. She isn't ready to see anybody----"
"Well, I'll try----"
"Please, don't!"
But he had her at a disadvantage, and he only laughed and mounted the
stairs, saying:
"I'll just exchange a word with her or with her maid, anyway."
When he turned into the corridor Geraldine's maid, seated in the
window-seat sewing, rose and came forward to take his message. In a few
moments she returned, saying:
"Miss Seagrave asks to be excused, as she is ready to retire."
"Ask Miss Seagrave if I can say good-night to her through the door."
The maid disappeared and returned in a moment.
"Miss Seagrave wishes you good-night, sir."
So he thanked the maid pleasantly and walked to his own room, now once
more prepared for him after the departure of those who had temporarily
required it.
Starlight made the leaded windows brilliant; he opened them wide and
leaned out on the sill, arms folded. The pale astral light illuminated a
fairy world of meadow and garden and spectral trees, and two figures
moving like ghosts down by the fountain among the roses--Rosalie and
Grandcourt pacing the gravel paths shoulder to shoulder under the stars.
Below him, on the terrace, he saw Kathleen and Scott--the latter
carrying a butterfly net--examining the borders of white pinks with a
lantern. In and out of the yellow rays swam multitudes of night moths,
glittering like flakes of tinsel as the lantern light flashed on their
wings; and Scott was evidently doing satisfactory execution, for every
moment or two Kathleen uncorked the cyanide jar and he dumped into it
from the folds of the net a fluttering victim.
"That last one is a Pandorus Sphinx!" he said in great excitement to
Kathleen, who had lifted the big glass jar into the lantern light and
was trying to get a glimpse of the exquisite moth, whose wings of olive
green, rose, and bronze velvet were already beating a hazy death tattoo
in the lethal fumes.
"A Pandorus! Scott, you've wanted one so much!" she exclaimed,
enchanted.
"You bet I have. Pholus pandorus is pretty rare around here. And I say,
Kathleen, that wasn't a bad net-stroke, was it? You see I had only a
second, and I took a desperate chance."
She praised his skill warmly; then, as he stood admiring his prize in
the jar which she held up, she suddenly caught him by the arm and
pointed:
"Oh, quick! There is a hawk-moth over the pinks which resembles nothing
we have seen yet!"
Scott very cautiously laid his net level, stole forward, shining the
lantern light full on the darting, hazy-winged creature, which was now
poised, hovering over a white blossom and probing the honeyed depths
with a long, slim proboscis.
"I thought it might be only a Lineata, but it isn't," he said
excitedly. "Did you ever see such a timid moth? The slightest step
scares the creature."
"Can't you try a quick net-stroke sideways?"
Her voice was as anxious and unsteady as his own.
"I'm afraid I'll miss. Lord but it's a lightning flier! Where is it
now?"
"Behind you. Do be careful! Turn very slowly."
He pivoted; the slim moth darted past, circled, and hung before a
blossom, wings vibrating so fast that the creature was merely a gray
blur in the lantern light. The next instant Gray's net swung; a furious
fluttering came from the green silk folds; Kathleen whipped off the
cover of the jar, and Duane deftly imprisoned the moth.
"Upon my word," he said shakily, "I believe I've got a Tersa Sphinx!--a
sub-tropical fellow whose presence here is mere accident!"
"Oh, if you have!" she breathed softly. She didn't know what a Tersa
Sphinx might be, but if its capture gave him pleasure, that was all she
cared for in the world.
"It _is_ a Tersa!" he almost shouted. "By George! it's a wonder."
Radiant, she bent eagerly above the jar where the strange, slender,
gray-and-brown hawk-moth lay dying. Its recoiling proboscis and its
slim, fawn-coloured legs quivered. The eyes glowed like tiny jewels.
"If we could only keep these little things alive," she sighed; then,
fearful of taking the least iota from his pleasure, added: "but of
course we can't, and for scientific purposes it's all right to let the
lovely little creatures sink into their death-sleep."
A slight haze had appeared over the lake; a sudden cool streak grew in
the air, which very quickly cleared the flower-beds of moths; and the
pretty sub-tropical sphinx was the last specimen of the evening.
In the library Scott pulled out a card-table and Kathleen brought
forceps, strips of oiled paper, pins, setting-blocks, needles, and
oblong glass weights; and together, seated opposite each other, they
removed the delicate-winged contents of the collecting jar.
Kathleen's dainty fingers were very swift and deft with the forceps.
Scott watched her. She picked up the green-and-rose Pandorus, laid it on
its back on a setting-block, affixed and pinned the oiled-paper strips,
drew out the four wings with the setting-needle until they were
symmetrical and the inner margin of the anterior pair was at right
angles with the body.
Then she arranged the legs, uncoiled and set the proboscis, and weighted
the wings with heavy glass strips.
They worked rapidly, happily there together, exchanging views and
opinions; and after a while the brilliant spoils of the evening were all
stretched and ready to dry, ultimately to be placed in plaster-of-Paris
mounts and hermetically sealed under glass covers.
Kathleen went away to cleanse her hands of any taint of cyanide; Scott,
returning from his own ablutions, met her in the hall, and so
miraculously youthful, so fresh and sweet and dainty did she appear
that, in some inexplicable manner, his awkward, self-conscious fear of
touching her suddenly vanished, and the next instant she was in his arms
and he had kissed her.
"Scott!" she faltered, pushing him from her, too limp and dazed to use
the strength she possessed.
Surprised at what he had done, amazed that he was not afraid of her, he
held her tightly, thrilled dumb at the exquisite trembling contact.
"Oh, what are you doing," she stammered, in dire consternation; "what
have you done? We--you cannot--you must let me go, Scott----"
"You're only a girl, after all--you darling!" he said, inspecting her in
an ecstacy of curiosity. "I wonder why I've been afraid of you for so
long?--just because I love you!"
"You don't--you can't care for me that way----"
"I care for you in every kind of a way that anybody can care about
anybody." She turned her shoulder, desperately striving to release
herself, but she had not realised how tall and strong he was. "How small
you are," he repeated wonderingly; "just a soft, slender girl, Kathleen.
I can't see how I ever came to let you make me study when I didn't want
to."
"Scott, dear," she pleaded breathlessly, "you must let me go. This--this
is utterly impossible----"
"What is?"
"That you and I can--could care--this way----"
"Don't you?"
"I--no!"
"Is that the truth, Kathleen?"
She looked up; the divine distress in her violet eyes sobered him, awed
him for a moment.
"Kathleen," he said, "there are only a few years' difference between our
ages. I feel older than you; you look younger than I--and you are all in
the world I care for--or ever have cared for. Last spring--that night----"
"Hush, Scott," she begged, blushing scarlet.
"I know you remember. That is when I began to love you. You must have
known it."
She said nothing; the strain of her resisting arms against his breast
had relaxed imperceptibly.
"What can a fellow say?" he went on a little wildly, checked at moments
by the dryness of his throat and the rapid heartbeats that almost took
his breath away when he looked at her. "I love you so dearly, Kathleen;
there's no use in trying to live without loving you, for I couldn't do
it!... I'm not really young; it makes me furious to think you consider
me in that light. I'm a man, strong enough and old enough to love
you--and make you love me! I _will_ make you!" His arms tightened.
She uttered a little cry, which was half a sob; his boyish roughness
sent a glow rushing through her. She fought against the peril of it, the
bewildering happiness that welled up--fought against her heart that was
betraying her senses, against the deep, sweet passion that awoke as his
face touched hers.
"Will you love me?" he said fiercely.
"No!"
"Will you?"
"Yes.... Let me go!" she gasped.
"Will you love me in the way I mean? Can you?"
"Yes. I do. I--have, long since.... Let me go!"
"Then--kiss me."
She looked up at him a moment, slowly put both arms around his neck:
"Now," she breathed faintly, "release me."
And at the same instant he saw Geraldine descending the stairs.
Kathleen saw her, too; saw her turn abruptly, re-mount and disappear.
There was a moment's painful silence, then, without a word, she picked
up her lace skirts, ran up the stairway, and continued swiftly on to
Geraldine's room.
"May I come in?" She spoke and opened the door of the bedroom at the
same time, and Geraldine turned on her, exasperated, hands clenched,
dark eyes harbouring lightning:
"Have I gone quite mad, Kathleen, or have you?" she demanded.
"I think I have," whispered Kathleen, turning white and halting.
"Geraldine, you will _have_ to listen. Scott has told me that he loves
me----"
"Is this the first time?"
"No.... It is the first time I have listened. I can't think clearly; I
scarcely know yet what I've said and done. What must you think?... But
won't you be a little gentle with me--a little forbearing--in memory of
what I have been to you--to him--so long?"
"What do you wish me to think?" asked the girl in a hard voice. "My
brother is of age; he will do what he pleases, I suppose. I--I don't
know what to think; this has astounded me. I never dreamed such a thing
possible----"
"Nor I--until this spring. I know it is all wrong; this is making me
more fearfully unhappy every minute I live. There is nothing but peril
in it; the discrepancy in our ages makes it hazardous--his youth, his
overwhelming fortune, my position and means--the world will surely,
surely misinterpret, misunderstand--I think even you, his sister, may be
led to credit--what, in your own heart, you must know to be utterly and
cruelly untrue."
"I don't know what to say or think," repeated Geraldine in a dull voice.
"I can't realise it; I thought that our affection for you was so--so
utterly different."
She stared curiously at Kathleen, trying to reconcile what she had
always known of her with what she now had to reckon with--strove to
find some alteration in the familiar features, something that she had
never before noticed, some new, unsuspected splendour of beauty and
charm, some undetected and subtle allure. She saw only a wholesome,
young, and lovely woman, fresh-skinned, slender, sweet, and
graceful--the same companion she had always known and, as she
remembered, unchanged in any way since the years of childhood, when
Kathleen was twenty and she and her brother were ten.
"I suppose," she said, "that if Scott is in love with you, there is only
one thing to do."
"There are several," said Kathleen in a low voice.
"Will you not marry him?"
"I don't know; I think not."
"Are you not in love with him?"
"Does that matter?" asked Kathleen steadily. "Scott's happiness is what
is important."
"But his happiness, apparently, depends on you."
Kathleen flushed and looked at her curiously.
"Dear, if I knew that was so, I would give myself to him. Neither you
nor he have ever asked anything of me in vain. Even if I did not love
him--as I do--and he needed me, I would give myself to him. You and he
have been all there was in life for me. But I am afraid that I may not
always be all that life holds for him. He is young; he has had no chance
yet; he has had little experience with women. I think he ought to have
his chance."
She might have said the same thing of herself. A bride at her husband's
death-bed, widowed before she had ever been a wife, what experience had
she? All her life so far had been devoted to the girl who stood there
confronting her, and to the brother. What did she know of men?--of
whether she might be capable of loving some man more suitable? She had
not given herself the chance. She never would, now.
There was no selfishness in Kathleen Severn. But there was much in the
Seagrave twins. The very method of their bringing up inculcated it; they
had never had any chance to be otherwise. The "cultiwation of the
indiwidool" had driven it into them, taught them the deification of
self, forced them to consider their own importance above anything else
in the world.
And it was of that importance that Geraldine was now thinking as she sat
on the edge of her bed, darkly considering these new problems that
chance was laying before her one by one.
If Scott was going to be unhappy without Kathleen, it followed, as a
matter of course, that he must have Kathleen. The chances Kathleen might
take, what she might have to endure of the world's malice and gossip and
criticism, never entered Geraldine's mind at all.
"If he is in love with you," she repeated, "it settles it, I think. What
else is there to do but marry him?"
Kathleen shook her head. "I shall do what is best for him--whatever that
may be."
"You won't make him unhappy, I suppose?" inquired Geraldine, astonished.
"Dear, a woman may be truer to the man she loves--and kinder--by
refusing him. Is not that what _you_ have done--for Duane's sake?"
Geraldine sprang to her feet, face white, mouth distorted with anger:
"I made a god of Duane!" she broke out breathlessly. "Everything that
was in me--everything that was decent and unselfish and pure-minded
dominated me when I found I loved him. So I would not listen to my own
desire for him, I would not let him risk a terrible unhappiness until I
could go to him as clean and well and straight and unafraid as he could
wish!" She laughed bitterly, and laid her hands on her breast. "Look at
me, Kathleen! I am quite as decent as this god of mine. Why should I
worry over the chances he takes when I have chances enough to take in
marrying him? I was stupid to be so conscientious--I behaved like a
hysterical schoolgirl--or a silly communicant--making him my confessor!
A girl is a perfect fool to make a god out of a man. I made one out of
Duane; and he acted like one. It nearly ended me, but, after all, he is
no worse than I. Whoever it was who said that decency is only depravity
afraid, is right. I _am_ depraved; I _am_ afraid. I'm afraid that I
cannot control myself, for one thing; and I'm afraid of being unhappy
for life if I don't marry Duane. And I'm going to, and let him take his
chances!"
Kathleen, very pale, said: "That is selfishness--if you do it."
"Are not men selfish? He will not tell me as much of his life as I have
told him of mine. I have told him everything. How do I know what risk I
run? Yes--I do know; I take the risk of marrying a man notorious for his
facility with women. And he lets me take that risk. Why should I not let
him risk something?"
The girl seemed strangely excited; her quick breathing and bright,
unsteady eyes betrayed the nervous tension of the last few days. She
said feverishly:
"There is a lot of nonsense talked about self-sacrifice and love; about
the beauties of abnegation and martyrdom, but, Kathleen, if I shall ever
need him at all, I need him now. I'm afraid to be alone any longer; I'm
frightened at the chances against me. Do you know what these days of
horror have been to me, locked in here--all alone--in the depths of
degradation for what--what I did that night--in distress and shame
unutterable----"
"My darling----"
"Wait! I had more to endure--I had to endure the results of my education
in the study of man! I had to realise that I loved one of them who has
done enough to annihilate in me anything except love. I had to learn
that he couldn't kill that--that I want him in spite of it, that I need
him, that my heart is sick with dread; that he can have me when he
will--Oh, Kathleen, I have learned to care less for him than when I
denied him for his own sake--more for him than I did before he held me
in his arms! And that is not a high type of love--I know it--but oh, if
I could only have his arms around me--if I could rest there for a
while--and not feel so frightened, so utterly alone!--I might win out; I
might kill what is menacing me, with God's help--and his!"
She lay shivering on Kathleen's breast now, dry-eyed, twisting her
ringless fingers in dumb anguish.
"Darling, darling," murmured Kathleen, "you cannot do this thing. You
cannot let him assume a burden that is yours alone."
"Why not? What is one's lover for?"
"Not to use; not to hazard; not to be made responsible for a sick mind
and a will already demoralised. Is it fair to ask him--to let him begin
life with such a burden--such a handicap? Is it not braver, fairer, to
fight it out alone, eradicate what threatens you--oh, my own darling! my
little Geraldine!--is it not fairer to the man you love? Is he not worth
striving for, suffering for? Have you no courage to endure if he is to
be the reward? Is a little selfish weakness, a miserable self-indulgence
to stand between you and life-long happiness?"
Geraldine looked up; her face was very white:
"Have you ever been tempted?"
"Have I not been to-night?"
"I mean by--something ignoble?"
"No."
"Do you know how it hurts?"
"To--to deny yourself?"
"Yes.... It is so--difficult--it makes me wretchedly weak.... I only
thought he might help me.... You are right, Kathleen.... I must be
terribly demoralised to have wished it. I--I will not marry him, now. I
don't think I ever will.... You are right. I have got to be fair to him,
no matter what he has been to me.... He has been fearfully unfair. After
all, he is only a man.... I couldn't really love a god."