"Oh, come along, don't get mad!" he said. "What's your little game?
Are you staying up here to draw old Flood on, or is it something else?
I won't tell!"
She felt herself enveloped in a hot wave of anger and disgust, as if
the fetid breath of some foul creature had blown toward her. She
sprang from her chair and went swiftly toward the long window, and
throwing it open stepped down to the piazza.
Pendleton followed as calmly as if nothing had been said to arouse her;
but she was spared an answer, even a look, for Eleanor and Flood were
coming back to the house, Flood declaring that it was time for their
adieux.
Rosamund was glad; she had been unexpectedly glad to see them, but now
her pleasure was gone. She felt sick at heart, and wanted to be alone.
Yet her pride sustained her until they were gone; she stood on the
veranda to wave farewell to them as if nothing had happened, one arm
about Yetta's shoulders, framed against the background of the little
brown house that Flood thought so inadequate a shelter for a creature
so beloved and so rare.
Flood felt that he had been discretion itself. He had learned his
lesson, and was now too anxious for ultimate success to risk alarming
her; but every move she made, every look, every tone had been as meat
and drink to his longing.
On their way back past the Summit his mind and heart were full of her,
from her first silent greeting to the last glimpse of her with her arm
across the child's shoulders. How like her unerring taste, he thought,
to have chosen as friend so exquisite a creature as that Mrs. Reeves;
and how right Mrs. Reeves had been in all her praise of Rosamund! It
had seemed to him to-day that her face had been more than ever full of
dancing play of color; certainly her cheeks had flamed when she had
come out of that long window to meet him.
But Pendleton broke in on his dreams. "Our Rosy was looking
exceedingly blooming," said he. "Wonder what's up?"
He managed to throw something of insinuation into his tone.
"Oh, shut up, you ass!" said Flood.
Whereupon Mr. Pendleton raised his eyebrows, smiled, and proceeded to
whistle the "Merry Widow Waltz," which he knew Flood detested, for one
immortal hour.
Later in the evening, when Tim and Yetta had been long in bed, Rosamund
and Eleanor were in the sitting-room before the fire, the table with
its yellow-shaded lamp drawn up between them. Since the night of
Rosamund's fright the shades were kept drawn at night; now the room, in
its seclusion, was warm and cosy with the sense of home. Eleanor
smiled over a garment of Timmy's that she was mending; she stopped,
from time to time, to look into the fire, laying the work in her lap as
if it were a task over which she loved to linger.
Rosamund sat back in her big chair, her eyes partly closed, deep in
thought. The day had been full of crowding emotions. She mentally
recalled first one and then another, trying to marshal them into some
sequence of cause and event.
On the last moments between herself and John Ogilvie she dwelt least;
even in memory they were too palpitating. It is only after surrender,
or after loss, that a woman loves to dwell upon such moments; before,
they hold too much of fear, not to call forth the feminine withdrawal
of the unwon. His looks she dared recall; his pale intensity, the
flame in his eyes, the fear and anger there as she described the wicked
face at the window, his look before he left her, when Pendleton's step
was already on the veranda.
That brought her thoughts to Pendleton, to his insinuations and the
slight leer in his look. She shuddered all the more because she knew
that, a few months before, she would have parried his impertinence with
a laugh, instead of with the scorn and anger she had not been able to
hide to-day. She was at least that far from the old life, the old
state of mind! She knew now how intolerable she would find the people
who had seemed only commonplace before! Looking back, secure in her
new life in this purer air, she could say to herself how much she hated
their suspicions of everyone, their petty gossip, their searching for
hidden, unworthy motives in every least action, their expecting the
base to emerge from every innocence, their smiling, flattering faces.
She was glad, she told herself, so glad to be away from all that--all
the more glad because she could remember the time when it had not
especially displeased her. Yet in fairness she reminded herself that
Flood was different. He had been very nice, indeed, to-day--and he had
liked Eleanor. It spoke well for him that Eleanor, too, liked him!
She looked across at Eleanor's tenderly brooding face, and smiled; how
suitable it would be, she thought, if Flood and Eleanor--that would
relieve herself of Flood's intentions. It was the first time she had
been willing to admit that she knew what they were--and intentions on
Flood's part would be quite delightful if Eleanor were their object----
So her thoughts passed, from one thing to another, until, suddenly, as
if a shot had broken her dream, her heart stood still with fear, then
seemed to leap into her throat.
She and Eleanor were on their feet in an instant, hands grasping hands,
startled eyes searching each other's and then turning toward the door.
This time it was no stealthy presence which had crept upon the house to
peer in at the window. Even while they held each other, there in their
safety before the fire, something stumbled across the piazza, fell
against the door, cried out, seemed to fall farther, as if at the limit
of strength--and was still.
Even the negroes in the kitchen heard the noise, and came running in
with scared faces.
Rosamund moved quickly and quietly to the door, silently slid back the
bolt, and flung it open.
There was no lurking enemy to surprise. Instead, a huddled form lay,
as if crushed, before the doorsill. Between them they managed to lift
it and bear it upstairs. All the way up Eleanor, though trembling and
very white, carried her full share of the burden, and kept saying over
and over to Rosamund:
"It's all right, sweet! Don't be frightened! It's all right, sweet!
Don't be frightened!"
And Rosamund was saying over and over, on sobbing breath, "O Grace!
Poor Grace! O Grace!"
They laid her on a bed and undressed her. The poor cut feet were
soiled with blood and seemed frozen; the forehead beneath the pale
strands of hair--those pathetic strands of the woman in whom pride and
vanity are dead--was cut and bruised; on her body they found larger
bruises. They bathed her, and wrapped her in clean linen, and made her
as comfortable as they could. Aunt Sue and Eleanor exchanged looks,
and shook their heads. They sent Matt after the doctor. Then Timmy
called out, and Eleanor went to him. Aunt Sue said something about
more hot water, and descended to the kitchen.
Rosamund knelt beside the bed, and presently Grace fluttered back to a
dim consciousness.
"Miss Rose! Miss Rose!" were her first words, uttered in a tone of
fright.
"Yes, dear! I am here," said Rosamund, laying one of her cool hands on
Grace's forehead.
Grace closed her eyes as if satisfied. "I had to come," she whispered.
"It wasn't only for me."