Opal Verrons was small and slight with large childlike eyes that could
look like a baby's, but that could hold the very devil on occasions. The
eyes were dark and lustrous with long curling black lashes framing
them in a face that might have been modeled for an angel, so round the
curves, so enchanting the lips, so lofty the white brow. Angelé Potocka
had no lovelier set to her head, no more limpal fire in her eye, than
had Opal Verrons. Indeed her lovers often called her the Fire Opal. The
only difference was that Angelé Potocka developed her brains, of which
she had plenty, while Opal Verrons had placed her entire care upon
developing her lovely little body, though she too had plenty of brains
on occasion.
And she knew how to dress! So simply, so slightly sometimes, so
perfectly to give a setting--the right setting--to her little self.
She wore her heavy dark hair bobbed, and it curled about her small head
exquisitely, giving her the look of a Raphael Cherub or a boy page in
the court of King Arthur. With a flat band of silver olive leaves about
her brow, and the soft hair waving out below, nothing more was necessary
for a costume save a brief drapery of silver spangled cloth with a
strap of jewels and a wisp of black malines for a scarf. She was always
startling and lovely even in her simplest costume. Many people turned to
watch her in a simple dark blue serge made like a child's girded with a
delicate arrangement of medallions and chains of white metal, her dark
rough woollen stockings rolled girlishly below white dimpled knees, and
her feet shod in flat soled white buckskin shoes. She was young enough
to “get away with it,” the older women said cattishly as they watched
her stroll away to the beach with a new man each day, and noted her
artless grace and indifferent pose. That she had a burly millionaire
husband who still was under her spell and watched her jealously only
made her more interesting, and they pitied her for being tied to a man
twice her age and bulky as a bale of cotton. She who could dance like
a sylph and was light on her little feet as a thistle down. Though wise
ones sometimes said that Opal had her young eyes wide open when she
married Ed Verrons, and she had him right under her little pink well
manicured thumb. And some said she was not nearly so young as she
looked.
Her hands were the weakest point in Opal Verron's whole outfit. Not that
they were unlovely in form or ungraceful. They were so small they hardly
seemed like hands, so undeveloped, so useless, with the dimpling of a
baby's, yet the sharp nails of a little beast. They were so plump and
well cared for they were fairly sleek, and had an old wise air about
them as she patted her puffy curls daintily with a motion all her
own that showed her lovely rounded arm, and every needle-pointed
shell-tinted finger nail, sleek and puffy, and never used, not even
for a bit of embroidery or knitting. She couldn't, you know, with those
sharp transparent little nails, they might break. They were like her
little sharp teeth that always reminded one of a mouse's teeth, and made
one shudder at how sharp they would be should she ever decide to bite.
But her smile was like the mixing of all smiles, a baby's, a
woman-of-the-world, a grieved child's, and a spirit who had put aside
all moral purpose. Perhaps, like mixed drinks it was for that reason but
the more intoxicating. And because she did not hide her charms and was
lavish with her smiles, there were more poor victims about her little
feet than about any other woman at the shore that summer. Men talked
about her in the smoking rooms and billiard rooms and compared her to
vamps of other seasons, and decided she had left them all in the shade.
She was a perfect production of the modern age, more perfect than others
because she knew how to do the boldest things with that cherubic air
that bereft sin of its natural ugliness and made it beautiful and
delicious, as if degradation had suddenly become an exalted thing, like
some of the old rites in a Pagan Temple, and she a lovely priestess. And
when each new folly was over there was she with her innocent baby air,
and her pure childlike face that looked dreamily out from its frame of
little girl hair, and seemed not to have been soiled at all. And so men
who played her games lost their sense of sin and fell that much lower
than those who sin and know it and are afraid to look themselves in the
face. When a man loses his sense of shame, of being among the pigs, he
is in a far country indeed.
But Opal Verrons sauntering forth to the Hotel piazza in company
with three of her quondam admirers suddenly lost her luxurious air of
nestling content. The hotel clerk handed her two telegrams as she passed
the desk. She tore them open carelessly, but her eyes grew wide with
horror as she read.
Percy Emerson had been arrested. He had run over a woman and a baby
and both were in a hospital in a critical condition. He would be held
without bail until it was seen whether they lived.
She drew in her breath with a frightened gasp and bit at her red lip
with her little sharp teeth. A pretty child with floating curls and
dainty apparel ran laughing across her way, its hand outstretched to a
tiny white dog that was dancing after her, and Opal gave a sharp cry
and tore the telegram into small bits. But when she opened the second
message her face paled under its delicate rouge as she read: “Mortimer
McMarter killed in an accident when his car collided with a truck. His
body lies at Saybrook Inn. We find your address on his person, with a
request to let you know if anything happens to him. What do you wish
done with the body?”
Those who watched her face as she read say that it took on an ashen
color and she looked years older. Her real spirit seemed to be looking
forth from those wide limpid eyes for an instant, the spirit of a coward
who had been fooling the world; the spirit of a lost soul who had grown
old in sin; the spirit of a soul who had stepped over the bounds and
sinned beyond her depth.
She looked about upon them all, stricken, appalled,--not sorry but just
afraid,--and not for her friends, but for herself! And then she gave a
horrid little lost laugh and dropping the telegram as if it had burned
her, she flung out her voice upon them with a blaze in her big eyes and
a snarl in her lute-voice:
“Well, I wasn't to blame was I? They all were grown men, weren't they?
It was up to them. _I'm_ going to get out of here! This is an _awful_
place!”
She gave a shudder and turning swiftly fled to the elevator, catching
it just as the door was being shut, and they saw her rising behind the
black and gold grating and waving a mocking little white hand at them
as they watched her amazed. Then one of them stooped and picked up the
telegram. And while they still stood at the doorway wondering some one
pointed to a brilliant blue car that was sliding down the avenue across
the beach road.
“She has gone!” they said looking at one another strangely. Did she
really care then?
* * * * *
The dinner at Sabbath Valley parsonage was a good one. It was quite
different from any dinner Laurie Shafton had ever eaten before. It had a
taste that he hadn't imagined just plain chicken and mashed potatoes and
bread and butter and coffee and cherry pie could have.
Those were things he seldom picked out from a menu, and he met them as
something new and delicious, prepared in this wonderful country way.
Also the atmosphere was queer and interesting.
The minister had helped him into the dining-room, a cheery room with a
bay window looking toward the church and a window box of nasturtiums in
which the bees hummed and buzzed.
The girl came in and acknowledged the casual introduction of her father
with a quite sophisticated nod and sat down across from him. And there
was a _prayer_ at the beginning of the meal! Just as he was about to
say something graceful to the girl, there was a _prayer_. It was almost
embarrassing. He had never seen one before like this. At a boarding
school once he had experienced a thing they called “grace” which
consisted in standing behind their chairs while the entire assembled
hungry multitude repeated a poem of a religious nature. He remembered
they used to spend their time making up parodies on it--one ran
something about “this same old fish upon my plate,” and rhymed with
“hate.” He stared at the lovely bowed hair of the girl across the table
while it was going on, and got ready a remark calculated to draw her
smiles, but the girl lifted eyes that seemed so far away he felt as
though she did not see him, and he contented himself with replying to
his host's question something about the part of the chicken he liked
best. It was a queer home to him, it seemed so intimate. Even the
chicken seemed to be a detail of their life together, perhaps because
there was only one chicken, and one breast. Where he dwelt there were
countless breasts, and everybody had a whole breast if he wanted it, or
a whole chicken for the matter of that. Here they had to stop and ask
what others liked before they chose for themselves. This analysis went
queerly on in his mind while he sat waiting for his plate and wondering
over the little things they were talking about. Mrs. Severn said Miss
Saxon had been crying all through church, and she told her Billy had
been away all night. She was awfully worried about his going with that
baseball team.
A fleeting shadow passed over the girl's face:
“Billy promised me he would be there to-day,” she said thoughtfully,
“something must have happened. I don't think Billy was with the baseball
team--” then her eyes travelled away out the window to the distant
hills, she didn't seem to see Laurence Shafton at all. It was a new
experience for him. He was fairly good looking and knew it.
Who the deuce was this Billy? And what did she care about Miss Saxon
crying? Did she care so much for Billy already? Would it be worth his
while to make her uncare?
“Mrs. Carter wasn't out,” said Mrs. Severn as she poured coffee, “I hope
she's not having more trouble with her neuralgia.”
The minister suddenly looked up from his carving:
“Did Mark come back yesterday, Marilyn?”
The girl drew a quick breath and brought back her eyes from the hills,
but she did not look at the young man: “No, father he didn't come.”
Who the deuce was _Mark_? Of course there would be several, but there
was always _one_. Billy and Mark! It was growing interesting.
But Billy and Mark were not mentioned again, though a deep gravity
seemed to have settled into the eyes of the family since their names had
come up. Laurie decided to speak of the weather and the roads:
“Glorious weather we're having,” he chirped out condescendingly, “But
you certainly have the limit for roads. What's the matter with the
highway? Had a Detour right in the best part of the road. Bridge down,
it said, road flooded! Made the deuce of a time for me--!”
“Bridge?” remarked Marilyn looking up thoughtfully.
“Flood?” echoed the minister sharply.
“Yes. About two miles back where the highway crosses this valley. Put
me in some fix. Had a bet on you know. Date with a lady. Staked a lot
of money on winning, too. Hard luck,” Then he looked across at Marilyn's
attentive face. Ah! He was getting her at last! More on that line.
“But it'll not be all loss,” he added gallantly with a gesture of
admiration toward her, “You see I didn't have any idea I was going to
meet _you_.”
But Marilyn's eyes were regarding him soberly, steadily, analytically,
without an answering smile. It was as if she did not like what he had
said--if indeed she had heard it at all--as if she were offended at it.
Then the eyes look on an impersonal look and wandered thoughtfully to
the mountains in the distance. Laurie felt his cheeks burn. He felt
almost embarrassed again, like during the prayer. Didn't the girl know
he was paying her a compliment? Or was she such a prude that she thought
him presuming on so slight an acquaintance? Her father was speaking:
“I don't quite understand,” 'he said thoughtfully. “There is no bridge
within ten miles, and nothing to flood the road but the Creek, which
never was known to overflow its banks more than a few feet at most.
The highway is far above the valley. You must have been a bit turned
around.”
The young man laughed lightly:
“Well, perhaps I had a jag on. I'm not surprised. I'd been driving for
hours and had to drink to keep my nerve till morning. There were some
dandy spilling places around those mountain curves. One doesn't care to
look out and see when one is driving at top speed.”
Heavens! What had he said now? The girl's eyes came round to look him
over again and went through to his soul like a lightning flash and away
again, and there was actually scorn on her lips. He must take another
line. He couldn't understand this haughty country beauty in the least.
“I certainly did enjoy your music,” he flashed forth with a little
of his own natural gaiety in his voice that made him so universal a
favorite.
The girl turned gravely toward him and surveyed him once more as if she
were surprised and perhaps had not done him justice. She looked like one
who would always be willing to do one justice. He felt encouraged:
“If it hadn't been for this blamed foot of mine I'd have hobbled over to
the--service. I was sorry not to hear the music closer.”
“There is another service this evening,” she said pleasantly, “Perhaps
father can help you over. It is a rather good organ for so small a one.”
She was trying to be polite to him. It put him on his metal. It made him
remember how rude he had been to her father the night before.
“Delightful organ I'm sure,” he returned, “but it was the organist that
I noticed. One doesn't often hear such playing even on a good organ.”
“Oh, I've been well taught,” said the girl without self-consciousness.
“But the children are to sing this evening. You'll like to hear the
children I'm sure. They are doing fairly well now.”
“Charmed, I'm sure,” he said with added flattery of his eyes which she
did not take at all because she was passing her mother's plate for more
gravy. How odd not to have a servant pass it!
“You come from New York?” the host hazarded.
“Yes,” drawled the youth, “Shafton's my name, Laurence Shafton, son of
William J., of Shafton and Gates you know,” he added impressively.
The host was polite but unimpressed. It was almost as though he had
never heard of William J. Shafton the multi-millionaire. Or was it?
Dash the man, he had such a way with him of acting as though he knew
everything and _nothing_ impressed him; as though he was just as good
as the next one! As though his father was something even greater than a
millionaire! He didn't seem to be in the least like Laurie's idea of a
clergyman. He couldn't seem to get anywhere with him.
The talk drifted on at the table, ebbing and flowing about the two
ladies as the tide touches a rising strand and runs away. The girl and
her mother answered his questions with direct steady gaze, and polite
phrases, but they did not gush nor have the attitude of taking him
eagerly into their circle as he was accustomed to being taken in
wherever he went. Nothing he said seemed to reach further than kindly
hospitality. When that was fulfilled they were done and went back to
their own interests.
Marilyn did not seem to consider the young man a guest of hers in any
sense personally. After the dinner she moved quietly out to the porch
and seated herself in a far chair with a leather bound book, perhaps
a Bible, or prayer book. He wasn't very familiar with such things. She
took a little gold pencil from a chain about her neck and made notes
on a bit of paper from what she read, and she joined not at all in the
conversation unless she was spoken to, and then her thoughts seemed to
be elsewhere. It was maddening.
Once when a tough looking little urchin went by with a grin she flew
down off the porch to the gate to talk with him; she stood there some
time in earnest converse. What could a girl like that find to say to a
mere kid? When she came back there was a look of trouble in her eyes,
and by and by her father asked if Harry had seen _Billy,_ and she shook
her head with a cloud on her brow. It must be _Billy_ then. Billy was
the one! Well, dash him! If he couldn't go one better than Billy he
would see! Anyhow Billy didn't have a sprained ankle, and a place in
the family! A girl like that was worth a few days' invalidism. His ankle
didn't hurt much since the minister had dressed it again. He believed he
could get up and walk if he liked, but he did not mean to. He meant to
stay here a few days and conquer this young beauty. It was likely only
her way of vamping a man, anyway, and a mighty tantalizing one at that.
Well, he would show her! And he would show Billy, too, whoever Billy
was! A girl like that! Why,--A girl like that with a face like that
would grace any gathering, any home! He had the fineness of taste to
realize that after he got done playing around with Opal and women like
her, this would be a lady any one would be proud to settle down to. And
why not? If he chose to fall in love with a country nobody, why could'nt
he? What was the use of being Laurie Shafton, son of the great William
J. Shafton, if he couldn't marry whom he would? Shafton would be enough
to bring any girl up to par in any society in the universe. So Laurie
Shafton set himself busily to be agreeable.
And presently his opportunity arrived. Mrs. Severn had gone in the house
to take a nap, and the minister had been called away to see a sick man.
The girl continued to study her little book:
“I wish you would come and amuse me,” he said in the voice of an
interesting invalid.
The girl looked up and smiled absently:
“I'm sorry,” she said, “but I have to go to my Sunday-school class in a
few minutes, and I was just getting my lesson ready. Would you like me
to get you something to read?”
“No,” he answered crossly. He was not used to being crossed in any
desire by a lady, “I want you to talk to me. Bother the Sunday-school!
Give them a vacation to-day and let them go fishing. They'll be
delighted, I'm sure. You have a wonderful foot. Do you know it? You must
be a good dancer. Haven't you a victrola here? We might dance if only my
foot weren't out of commission.”
“I don't dance, Mr. Shafton, and it is the Sabbath,” she smiled
indulgently with her eyes on her book.
“Why don't you dance? I could teach you easily. And what has the Sabbath
got to do with it?”
“But I don't care to dance. It doesn't appeal to me in the least. And
the Sabbath has everything to do with it. If I did dance I would not do
it to-day.”
“But why?” he asked in genuine wonder.
“Because this is the day set apart for enjoying God and not enjoying
ourselves.”
He stared.
“You certainly are the most extraordinary young woman I ever met,” he
said admiringly, “Did no one ever tell you that you are very beautiful.”
She gave him the benefit of her beautiful eyes then in a cold amused
glance:
“Among my friends, Mr. Shafton, it is not considered good form to say
such things to a lady of slight acquaintance.” She rose and gathered
up her book and hat that lay on the floor beside her chair, and drew
herself up till she seemed almost regal.
Laurie Shafton stumbled to his feet. He was ashamed. He felt almost as
he had felt once when he was caught with a jag on being rude to a friend
of his mother's:
“I beg your pardon,” he said gracefully, “I hope you will believe me, I
meant no harm.”
“It is no matter,” said the girl graciously, “only I do not like it. Now
you must excuse me. I see my class are gathering.”
She put the hat on carelessly, with a push and a pat and slipped past
him down the steps and across the lawn. Her dress brushed against his
foot as she went and it seemed like the touch of something ethereal. He
never had felt such an experience before.
She walked swiftly to a group of boys, ugly, uncomely, overgrown kids,
the same who had followed her after church, and met them with eagerness.
He felt a jealous chagrin as he watched them follow her into the church,
an anger that she dared to trample upon him that way, a fierce desire to
get away and quaff the cup of admiration at the hand of some of his own
friends, or to quaff some cup, _any_ cup, for he was thirsty, thirsty,
_thirsty_, and this was a dry and barren land. If he did stay and try to
win this haughty country beauty he would have to find a secret source of
supply somewhere or he never would be able to live through it.
The Sunday-school hour wore away while he was planning how to revenge
himself, but she did not return. She lingered for a long time on the
church steps talking with those everlasting kids again, and after they
were gone she went back into the church and began to play low, sweet
music.
It was growing late. Long red beams slanted down the village street
across the lawn, lingered and went out. A single ruby burned on one of
the memorial windows like a lamp, and went purple and then gray. It was
growing dusk, and that girl played on! Dash it all! Why didn't she quit?
It was wonderful music, but he wanted to talk to her. If he hobbled
slowly could he get across that lawn? He decided to try. And then, just
as he rose and steadied himself by the porch pillar, down the street in
a whirl of dust and noisy claxon there came a great blue car and drew
up sharp in front of the door, while a lute-like voice shouted gaily:
“Laurie, Laurie Shafton, is that you?”