Ruth did not see Gloria until just before luncheon.
“I told him, and he’s going,” she said.
“Did he make much of a row?”
“Not after I explained that you hadn’t any money.”
“Let’s not talk about him any more—only has he gone yet?”
“Yes; he wouldn’t even wait until train time. Said he could get luncheon
in the village and started out as soon as he could pack. I’m so happy
about it—now you can marry Professor Pendragon again.”
She realized at once that she shouldn’t have said it, but she had left
so much unsaid during the last few weeks and now with both George and
Prince Aglipogue gone she felt that the seal had been removed from her
lips. She felt too, in a curious way, that Gloria though so many years
older, was in a way her special charge—that she was entering a new life
and must be guided.
Gloria looked at her with startled eyes.
“What nonsense! You’re too romantic, Ruth!”
“But, Gloria, you do love him; you can’t deny it. Didn’t you tell me
once that he is the only one you’ve ever really loved?”
“It takes two to make a marriage, Ruth.”
“But he loves you too.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He told me so.”
“Even so, and even if I would marry again, you must realize that men
very rarely marry the women they love. That’s why we separated, I think.
We married for love and that is always disastrous. I should never have
married at all. Tomorrow we’ll go back to town and Percy and I will each
go our separate ways and forget the horrible nightmare of this place. It
was just chance that we met—a weird freak of coincidence. He didn’t want
it; neither did I.”
There was nothing that Ruth could answer and presently Gloria went on:
“No woman was meant to have both a career and a husband; lots of them
try it—most women in fact, but usually they come to grief. It isn’t
written in the stars that one woman should have both loves, art and a
husband.”
Ruth thought of Nels and Dorothy. Would they come to grief she wondered.
As for herself she didn’t have to choose—love didn’t come and art had
turned its back on her. She wondered if it was written in the stars that
she should have neither art nor love. Then she remembered Pendragon’s
quotation, “The stars incline, but do not compel.” So many things had
happened here perhaps another miracle would be performed. She wondered
why Gloria said nothing about Pendragon’s sudden recovery.
It was a relief not to see Prince Aglipogue at the luncheon table. The
dinner guests of the night before had all returned to their own homes.
Aglipogue was gone, and Ruth wondered if Angela would be troubled,
because, for once, there was an uneven number of people at the table.
She did look a bit troubled, though she was trying hard to conceal it.
An engagement announced and broken within twenty-four hours was rather
trying. Still she was smiling:
“We’ve got news of your servant, Gloria dear,—rather horrid news. It’s
quite a shock—a bad way to end a pleasant Christmas party, even though
he was only a servant, and not a very good one.” She paused, but no one
came to her rescue with questions or information and she went on:
“They found him in the snow—he must have tried to walk to the station
and got lost—he was dead—frozen—and he had the—that horrible beast with
him—the dead snake wound round his body.”
Her voice broke hysterically and she shivered with horror.
“They didn’t bring him here—thank God—but took him to an undertaker’s in
the village. If he has any relatives that you could wire—”
“None that I know of—they wouldn’t be in America anyway,” said Gloria,
quite calmly, though her face was pale.
“Then Terry said he’d arrange things, you know—one place is as good as
another. I’m glad you take it so quietly—it’s an awful ending.”
“He must have been furious because Pendragon shot the snake,” said
Terry.
“Still, if the excitement of killing a snake could cure Pen, Miss
Mayfield ought to be willing to sacrifice her servant,” said John
Peyton-Russell.
“It really was remarkable—though I have heard of similar instances—of
paralytics leaving their beds during the excitement of a fire, and that
sort of thing— I trust there will be no relapse.”
Miss Gilchrist’s tone left no doubt in the minds of her hearers that she
was prepared for the worst. Indeed, her eyes were constantly fastened on
Professor Pendragon as if she expected him to fall down at any minute.
“There will be none, thank you,” said Pendragon.
Ruth and Terry exchanged glances. Ruth’s eyes asked Terry, “Do you
believe me now?” and Terry’s answered, “I don’t know— I don’t understand
it at all.”
“Of course we’re all very happy over Professor Pendragon’s recovery,”
said Gloria in her most conventional voice, “and of course I don’t
really feel any loss about George, though I am sorry he died that way.”
“It is tragic, but now he’s really gone, Gloria,” said Terry. “I’m
awfully glad to be rid of him. He was the most disagreeable servant I
ever met, if one can be said to meet servants. I don’t think George ever
really accepted me. He used to snub me most horribly and I don’t like
being snubbed.”
“That reminds me that you haven’t any servant at all, Gloria, so you
really must stay here a few days longer. Perhaps I can find some for
you—she really can’t go back now, can she, John?”
“Really, Angela, that’s unfair; of course I want Miss Mayfield to
stay—we planned to have everybody over the New Year. Perhaps Professor
Pendragon can persuade her.”
“I have had little luck in persuading women to do anything—if Prince
Aglipogue had not left us so suddenly he might have been more
successful.”
There was a little embarrassed silence around the table after Pendragon
had spoken, then Angela began talking of some irrelevant subject and the
conversation went on, but always Ruth observed that neither Gloria nor
Pendragon ever spoke directly to each other, though the omission was so
cleverly disguised that no one at the table observed it except Terry and
Ruth who always seemed to see everything together. Ruth had been so busy
with Gloria and her affairs that she had talked very little to Terry and
never alone; but they conversed nevertheless, constantly reading each
other’s eyes as clearly as they would a printed page. The same things
seemed to amuse them both and except in the realm of mystery which
Ruth’s childhood had built about her, they understood each other
perfectly. She knew now that he wanted to talk to her, but she pretended
not to see, for having begun her task of managing the happiness of
Gloria, she was determined to go on, and the person she wanted to see
alone was Professor Pendragon.
Angela who always advertised her house as “one of those places where you
can do exactly what you please,” and therefore never on any occasion let
any one do as they pleased if she could possibly prevent it by a
continuous program of “amusement” and “entertainment,” was trying to
interest them in a plan to go skating that evening by moonlight on a
little lake that lay halfway between Fir Tree Farm and the village. Some
one had reported that the ice was clear of snow and what was the good of
being in the country in winter time if one didn’t go in for winter
sport?
Her plans fell on rather unenthusiastic ears. The men, having enjoyed a
long hike in the morning, were not eager for more exercise; Gloria
wanted to spend the afternoon preparing to leave the next morning; Ruth
was not interested in anything that did not seem to offer any
furtherance of her plans for Gloria; and Miss Gilchrist didn’t skate.
The very atmosphere seemed to say that the party was finished; that
these people had, for the time being, said all they had to say to each
other and for the time, and wanted to be gone along their several roads.
It is a wise hostess who recognizes this situation and apparently Angela
did recognize it, for she finally stopped urging her scheme and when
Gloria asked Ruth to help her pack—Gloria always went on a week-end
equipped as for transcontinental travel—Angela made no effort to detain
them or to go with them.
Gloria’s moment of confidences had passed. She talked now, but of
Terry’s play. She had told him of her changed decision and he seemed
very happy about it.
“Perhaps you’ll have a chance to make sketches of us,” she said to Ruth,
awakening again Ruth’s interest in the work to which she also was
returning.
“We’ll find two women servants some place and go on as before, Ruth.
Except that I’m not going to see quite so many people—only people I
really like after this. You know I really love the old house—as near
home as anything I’ll ever have. Wish we could get Amy back.”
“We can,” said Ruth. “Amy and I had an agreement when she left that she
would come back if you ever got rid of George. I have her address.”
“Really, Ruth!” said Gloria, looking at her with genuine admiration,
“You are the most amazing young person I’ve ever met. You ought to write
a book on the care and training of aunts. It would be a great success.”
Of this Ruth was not so sure. They were to leave on the morning train
and while she had accomplished half her purpose she had not wholly
succeeded. Gloria and Pendragon had met and now they were going to part
more widely separated than ever before, because their opportunity had
come and for some stupid reason they were both letting it go without
reaching out a hand or saying one word to make it their own. And Gloria
wasn’t happy—she was just normal at last, and a normal Gloria was rather
a pitiful thing. She was like stale champagne—all the sparkle gone out
of her. It seemed to Ruth that she could not live through another meal
with Gloria and Pendragon talking across and around each other—Pendragon
with his grave, quiet face in which the lines of pain seemed to be set
forever—Gloria, changed and quiet, determined to work and succeed again,
not for the joy of her work, but because it seemed the right thing to
do. Yet she did live through another dinner, a most unhappy meal at
which John and Angela sat trying to talk, realizing that something more
than they could quite understand had gone wrong and not knowing exactly
what to do about it. Terry and Miss Gilchrist relieved the tension
somewhat, Terry consciously, Miss Gilchrist unconsciously, because no
one else seemed able to talk, drew her out and once started on modern
child training, there was no reason for any one else making any effort.
She ran on endlessly with no more encouragement than an occasional, “Oh
quite, Really, Yes indeed, or How interesting!” from Terry or Pendragon.
What hurt more than anything was that Terry no longer signalled Ruth
with his eyes. There was no longer any interest or invitation in them.
If he had had anything to say to her he had forgotten it or lost
interest, for now he seemed to avoid exchange of words or glances with
her as much as Gloria and Pendragon avoided each other.
There was a feeble attempt on the part of Angela to start a conversation
with some semblance of animation over the coffee cups in the library
afterward, but finally even she surrendered as one by one they made
excuses of weariness, the early train or no excuse at all and drifted
away.
Ruth watched for Pendragon’s going and followed him. He made his way to
the enclosed veranda. She stood a moment looking through the glass door,
watching him as he paced up and down, smoking a pipe. What she was going
to do required courage; she might only meet with the cold rebuff that is
due to meddlesome persons, but Gloria’s happiness was at stake and she
could only fail, so she walked timidly out to him.
She waited patiently until he turned and faced her. She thought she saw
a look of disappointment cross his face when he saw who had interrupted
his solitude. That look, fancied or real, encouraged her to go on.
“I wanted to thank you for doing what you did—for not giving up, and to
tell you how happy I am that you’re well again,” she began.
“Yes—I am well again—I walk and eat and sleep and wake again—I am
alive.”
“And I wanted to ask you if you’re going to stop now— You’ve saved
Gloria from George and from the Prince—are you going to let her go away
now that you have accomplished so much?”
“My dear child, I can’t kidnap Gloria—she’s not the sort of woman one
kidnaps—not even the sort one woos and wins. She is the other sort—the
only sort worth while I think—the princess who calls her own swayamvara,
and makes her own choice.”
“But she did choose.”
“She has chosen too often.”
“Do you mean that even if Gloria still loved you you would not marry her
just because she has—because she has—”
All her old ideas and training rose up and kept her from finishing the
sentence “because she has had two other husbands.”
“If Gloria had married one hundred men I would still want her—don’t you
understand that?” He spoke almost fiercely. “But you don’t
understand—you’re too young; it isn’t that; but Gloria doesn’t love me.
If she did she would tell me so. She knows that I love her and she has
shown very plainly that she doesn’t want my love. I appreciate your
kindness,” he went on in a calmer tone, “but don’t trouble any more—what
is written is written and can’t be changed no matter how one tries.”
“If I give you my word of honour that Gloria does love you, what then?
She told me so—she does know that you love her, but she thinks you
don’t—she thinks the husbands make a difference. She doesn’t believe
that a man could understand that they were just—just incidents.”
Neither laughed at the idea of this twenty-year old girl speaking of two
husbands as incidents, though later Ruth remembered it herself, and
thought it rather funny.
He did not answer,—he was standing quite rigidly, staring at the door,
and, turning, Ruth saw Gloria approaching them:
“I’m sorry; I thought you were alone, Ruth,” she said and hesitated as
if she would have gone back.
“I’ve just remembered,” said Pendragon, “that the small star Eros is
supposed to be visible again about this time, but we have no telescope.
Ruth has not found it, though she has young eyes— Perhaps you and I,
together, Gloria—if we looked very closely—”
Under the clear starlight she saw them in each other’s arms. There was
one very bright star, that seemed to hang lower in the sky than winter
stars are wont to hang. Surely it was the star of love, though doubtless
no astronomer had ever named it so. She did not know exactly where she
was going when she left them there, but she was very happy. And then
halfway down the stairs she sat down because her happiness was
overflowing from her eyes in tears and she couldn’t see, and suddenly
she felt very tired. It was there that Terry, ascending, found her.
“I say—what’s wrong? You’re crying. I saw you with Pendragon—has he done
anything to hurt you? I’ll—”
“No-it’s not that—I’m crying because I’m so happy—”
“Oh!”
He looked at her half-disappointed, half-relieved and wholly bewildered.
“It’s Gloria and Pendragon—they’ve made up.” She reverted to the
vernacular of childhood. “I’m so happy because they’re happy.”
“But I thought—I thought you cared for Pendragon,” stumbled Terry.
“That’s funny—what made you think that? I do like him but mostly for
Gloria’s sake.”
“Look here,” said Terry. “If you don’t love Pendragon who do you love?”
She was smiling through her tears now.
“Is it absolutely necessary that I should love some one? You know I
always thought that you loved Gloria. If you don’t love Gloria, whom do
you love?”
For a moment he looked down into her upturned face, struggling against
the provocation of her lips.
“I love the most charming, youngest, most mature, most unselfish, most
winsome—oh, there aren’t adjectives enough. Who do you love?”
“The nicest—the very nicest and cleverest man in the world,” she
answered demurely.
“Nicest—I’m not quite sure that I like that adjective applied to a man.”
“I can’t help it—we can’t all have playwright’s vocabularies, you know.
I could draw him better.”
He bent over very near to her while her clever fingers made rapid
strokes. When it was finished she looked up at him with shy daring in
her eyes.
“Is my nose really like that?” he asked.
“How did you guess who it was meant for?” she teased, and turned her
head quickly, because she was not quite sure even now that she was ready
for that wonderful first kiss.
“I’ve always wanted to kiss you just below that little curl anyway,”
whispered Terry. “And now your lips, please.”
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Retained anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as
printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.