XV

The revulsion of feeling was so sharp as to demand all the effort she

was capable of making to move at all. Her self-control had never

before been so severely tested; the strain was so great that she forgot

to smile, until Pendleton, drawing off his gloves and toasting his back

at the fire, which he first took pains to rearrange with as serene

assurance as if it had been his own house, said:

"Dear me, Rosamund! Why this exuberant gayety of welcome?"

It was easy enough to laugh, and she felt secretly grateful for his

nonsense. She had almost forgotten the time when she had found such

banter on her own part a veritable shield and buckler.

"I'm stunned with joy, Marshall," she laughed. Then, turning to Flood,

"Have my woods brought you?"

He flushed with joy that she should have remembered their talk on the

Pocantico ride. "Your woods and what's in them," he told her. "I've

brought down a couple of young dogs, and we thought we'd try for some

shooting before the snow. That's due any day now, isn't it?"

"Yes, the season has been unusually late, they say. But, Mr. Flood,

you must not try to do any shooting around here!"

"Why not?" Pendleton put in, raising his eyebrows; he succeeded in

trying to look teasing only so far as to appear malicious. "Tame

birds, Rose?"

She ignored his impudence. "You'd get me into greater disfavor than

ever," she said, speaking to Flood. "You know there are said to be

illicit stills in these mountains; there have been some lawless things

done within a year or two, and the Government is watching the people

here, or so they believe. They are distrustful of everybody--my poor

innocent self included."

"I hope there's nothing unpleasant?" Flood asked, looking disturbed.

"No! Oh, dear, no! But there might be, if you went about in the woods

with your guns, and were known to be my friends."

"Your fears are quite groundless, my dear," said Pendleton. "We were

not going to stop here, anyway, but Flood hesitates to disillusion you.

There's no hotel in your neighborhood, you know."

"I'm so glad!" she cried, and then joined the two men in their laugh.

"Oh, Marshall, you're always making me absurd! You know perfectly well

what I mean! I had horrible visions of your being murdered in the

woods; naturally, I'm not glad there's no place for you to stay! I

wish I could put you up here, but----"

"Certainly!" said Flood, to her expressive pause. "We understand how

impossible it would be. Fact is, we thought we'd run down to Oakleigh

for a few days, and we found we wanted to come a bit out of the path

and call on you! Hope you don't mind?"

To her surprise she realized that she was really very glad to see them.

She had within the hour been declaring that she had put away the old

life, yet here were these two dropped from the skies of chance, to

remind her of it; and she was undeniably glad to see them!

It ended in their staying to the midday dinner, when Aunt Sue surpassed

the standard of her own fried chicken and beaten biscuits, and Matt

could be heard turning the ice-cream freezer all during the first part

of the meal, and Tim had to be suppressed by Eleanor because he would

persist in trying to describe how the chickens they were eating had

hopped and hopped and hopped when Matt had chopped their heads off.

It was the first time Flood had met Eleanor, and it was immediately

evident that she impressed him very much. His look was upon her more

than upon Rosamund; he watched her every move with a light of pleasure

in his eyes, and his manner toward her was exquisite--holding something

of the deference of a young man toward a very charming, very old lady,

something of the tenderness of a physician toward a courageous patient,

something of a courtier's manner toward a queen, a little of the look

of the lover of beauty at something unexpectedly lovely. And since

Eleanor was neither old nor ill nor yet a queen, it must have been her

loveliness, fragile and gentle and rare, that had attracted him, since

attracted he so plainly was.

He would look from Eleanor to Rosamund from time to time as if trying

to convey, silently, to the woman whom he held above all others how

lovely he found her friend; and Rosamund, understanding and liking him

for it, drew Eleanor out of the little tiredness of manner that was apt

to fall upon her before strangers, and Flood brought the color to

Eleanor's cheeks when he noticed how Timmy had blossomed under her

care. Indeed, the little boy, with the quick adaptability of babyhood,

might have been petted and adored all his life, so complacently did he

accept his new mother's care and ignore the comments of Flood; for the

moment he was absorbed in the celery family which he had spread out

before him on the tablecloth.

"It's me an' my muvver," he said to himself, as he arrayed a short

stalk and some longer ones before him, "an' it's Miss Rose, an' it's

Yetta, an' it's Matt. An' vey ain't any Sue!" Tim could not be

prevailed upon to accept Aunt Susan, apparently feeling that in order

to repudiate the relationship which he thought her title of courtesy

implied he must repudiate her entirely.

After dinner Rosamund managed so that a rather reluctant Flood and

Eleanor should be led off by Tim to inspect the chickens. Pendleton

was by no means disdaining to pay homage to Yetta's black eyes, and for

a while Rosamund watched the two with amusement.

It was the first opportunity Rosamund had found for measuring the

girl's improvement. It was amusing to see how well Yetta had learned

to imitate Eleanor's manners and her own, how seldom she lapsed into

the speech of the streets, yet how much of her native quickness and

assurance she had retained. She was never at a loss for an answer to

Pendleton's banter; and Pendleton, soaring to farther and farther

heights of absurdity, was enjoying himself immensely, when Rosamund

decided that Yetta had had enough, and sent the girl off to her lessons.

"Now what did you break it up for, Rose?" Pendleton protested, adding,

"It's wonderful how jealous all you women are of me!"

She laughed. "Marshall! Your absurdity is only exceeded by your

modesty!"

"Oh, I know my worth," said he, folding his hands and looking down,

with his head on one side. Apparently he never tired of playing the

clown.

"Tell me about Cecilia," said Rosamund.

"Ah, dear Cecilia! She's looking very well this autumn, very well

indeed. And young! And slim! I admire dear Cecilia's slimness

exceedingly. It's a monument to perseverance and self-denial."

Rosamund understood, and smiled with him. "Her letters have sounded

very happy, so I've taken it for granted that things have gone well

with her," she said.

"Well, you're responsible for that, aren't you? 'Pon my word, if

Cecilia had money enough--or I had--to make her contented----" He

sighed. "But Cecilia's up to something. She doesn't seem to--er--to

care as much for my company as she did. Why, Rose, would you believe

it, she even sent down word to me the other day that she had a

headache!"

"Perhaps she had," Rosamund suggested.

"Oh, no. No. If she had, she would have let me see her. I'm good for

headaches. No, it wasn't that. Besides, it was the very day after

Flood told her he was coming here, and asked if she had any messages

for you. No. Cecilia's up to something."

He wilted sideways in his chair, and tried to look pensive and

pathetic. Rosamund watched him, amused as always, and not in the least

understanding what he was trying to imply.

Suddenly he leaned toward her. "And you're up to something, too,

Rosy!" he said, as if throwing the words at her. "What's your game in

staying down here, anyway?"