In her packing Alexina had left out a muslin dress for Mrs. Leroy's
evening. Going up from the hurried supper to dress, she glanced at it,
then drew forth a box from a trunk and pulled the contents therefrom.
The dress that came forth shimmered and gleamed and floated; it was a
thing that must have enfolded any woman to beautiful lines, and have
made any throat, any head, lift. It was a purchase she had been in a
way ashamed of, tempted to it in a moment of weakness, urged on by
Molly.
Now she laid it forth and dressed with care, grave as some young
priestess. Molly watched her curiously. Even at the hotel there had
been occasions for only simple clothes.
But the girl even brought forth some leather cases. Generally it was
her little pose that she did not care for jewels, but in her heart she
loved them, as every woman does, primitive or civilized, young or
three-score-and-ten. Now she put on what she had. Of late the fairness
of Malise had deepened into abiding beauty, yet to-night it was the
garb she was emphasizing it would seem, and what it stood for, not the
personality.
"You're curious," said Molly. "I would have thought it was a time for
the simplest."
"Should you?" said Alexina.
The evening turned into a really spontaneous little affair. It was the
sort of thing the young people of Aden--dwellers in the various frame
houses about the town, all sojourners from a common cause, somebody's
health--it was the sort of thing these young people got up about every
other night in the year. Two mandolins, a violin, and a harp made
music. A college boy with a cough, and a Mexican bar-keeper played the
mandolins, the local boot and shoe dealer the violin, an Italian the
harp, and the whole called itself a string band.
Charlotte Leroy, in a rejuvenated dress of former splendour, was a
beaming soul of delight. That Alexina, Willy and Celeste had really
seen to everything Charlotte had no idea, for neither had she sat down
that day.
But she beamed now while Molly's low laughter rose softly.
Alexina rearranged lights and adjusted decorations. She went out to
the kitchen and took a reassuring survey. Later, she told the Aden
youths who asked, she didn't believe she meant to dance. They did not
press her; perhaps it was the gown, perhaps it was her manner
preventing. She laughed, as if it mattered! She talked with Mr. Jonas,
but all the time she knew that William Leroy, in his white flannel
clothes, was outside, smoking, on the gallery. After a while she went
out. He was leaning against a pillar, and turned at her step. The
night was flooded as by an ecstasy of moonlight. His eyes swept her
bare shoulders and arms, the shimmering dress, the jewels, then
turning, he looked away.
"Come and dance," said Alexina.
"I don't know how."
"It's your own fault," said the girl as promptly; "you climbed up on
back sheds at dancing school so you wouldn't have to learn."
"It gave me my own satisfaction at the time," said he.
"There's so much that's your own fault," she returned, "and which you
cover up by pretending that you don't like or want. You're as human as
any one else. You make yourself believe you don't want things because
you're stubborn and proud, but you do, you do."
"Under proper conditions," he admitted largely, "I might, yes."
"Under any conditions, in your heart you want them, we all want them;
you're not different."
"Well, and what then?"
"You are not honest, that is what then."
"Well," he returned, "and what then?"
She was almost crying. "You exonerate yourself, you condone yourself,
you say you would, you could, you will--some day, if--if thus and so.
You think some better condition is going to bring the confidence to be
what nature meant you to be; yes, you do think it, you do, you do. But
it has to grow out of yourself. I can tell you that, and when the time
you think for comes, to be what you'd like to be, you'll have lost the
power. I want to say it, I mean to say it, I want to hurt you, I hope
my saying it can hurt you, so I can go away glad, glad I've hurt you.
There, I've said it; don't stop me, don't; I came to say it and I'm
going back now."
He was breathing hard. "Oh, no," he said, "you're not." He glanced
around. Then he stepped down from the gallery and turned. "Come, let
yourself go, I'll steady you."
She hesitated, brushing some wet from her cheek with her hand. She did
not know until then there had been tears.
"Come," he reiterated. It was the tone women, even Molly, obeyed.
She slipped down and he caught her and set her on her feet. "Pick up
your dress," he said, "the grass is wet."
Everywhere, it seemed, there were couples strolling. Around to the
right, by the side door, with its little, vine-covered pent-house, was
a bench beneath a tree; Aunt Mandy and Mrs. Leroy aired their crocks
and pans thereon. He led the way to it, spread out his handkerchief,
and Alexina, gathering up her gleaming dress, sat down. The comical
side of it must have occurred to him, the girl gathering up a dress
fit for a princess, to sit there. He laughed, not an altogether
humorous laugh.
"Illustrative of the true state of things, as it were," he said. "I
proffer my lady a milk-bench."
A sob rose in her throat. "I hate you," she said hotly.
"That you bestow feeling of any sort, to such degree, is flattering,"
said he nastily.
"You're very rude."
"It puts us on a sort of equality, and establishes me in my own
self-respect, so to speak, to have face to be rude to _une grande
dame_--"
"You're not honest, and you know it, and it's hurting you while you're
doing it."
"Just so," said William, after the fashion of his father. "Where are
you going?"
"To the house."
"Come back."
"I won't. I've said what I had to say."
He came after her. "And now you shall listen." They stood and looked
at each other. Her eyes measured him with some scorn, his met the look
squarely. "I care for you as the only thing worth while in life," he
said.
"I've not so much pride left you need think you have to say that to
save it," she burst forth.
"You are the one not true now. You know it, you have known it right
along. I hadn't even the arts of your world to know how to conceal
it."
"My world!" said Alexina.
"Very well; let's both be honest. I've fought it because I've had
enough decency to see the impossibility--oh, my God!--what's the use
being fool enough to talk about it. I haven't one cent on earth that's
my own; I'm worse than a beggar, if we are going to be quite honest
about matters, since I am a debtor."
"Oh," said Alexina; "oh, don't."
"I fought it out, or thought I had, down there in the glades, and
then got up and came back because I couldn't let you go--without--"
"I'm glad," said Alexina, "I'm glad."
"You don't know what you're saying."
"I do know," said the girl. "I'm glad, I'm glad--"
"Alexina!"
"I'm glad."
Her young face was white and solemn in the moonlight, but her eyes
came up to his with a splendid courage. "I'm glad," she repeated.
It might have been a moment, an hour, a day, an aeon, the two looked at
each other. Then their hands went out to each other, for very need of
human touch in the great awe of it.
When he spoke both were trembling.
"Will you wait?" he asked her. "It may be long." But the note in his
voice was new. The fight even then was begun.
"Yes," she told him, grave eyes meeting grave eyes, for young love is
solemn. Then he drew her to him and sight and sound went out, and the
solid round earth was spurned. And yet they were but two of the long,
unending line, mounting thus to God and His heaven, for it is for this
we are come into the world.
Suddenly Alexina slipped her hands from his and fled.
Molly was on the porch with Mr. Jonas. A toy harness from the
cotillion favors jangled on her dress. She had sunk laughing on a
bench to get breath.
"Yes," she told Mr. Jonas, "we go in the morning, to Cannes Brulee."
Alexina was coming up on the porch and to Molly. Straight she slipped
to her knees and her arms went around her mother.
"Dear me, Malise," said Molly.
The head of the girl hid itself in the curve of the mother's neck and
shoulder.
"Dear me, Malise," said Molly, "you're such a child."