"I got it from Elizabeth's viking."
That was the calm way in which she put it.
"He isn't my viking," I told her.
"Well, you were responsible for him."
"Do you mean to say," Anthony demanded, "that you accepted a gift like
that from a man you didn't know?"
Nancy, hugging herself in the cloak, said, "I felt that I knew him very
well."
"How long was he here?"
"Three days. I saw him twice."
"I don't think I quite like the--idea--" Anthony began, then broke off.
"Of course you have a right to do as you please."
"Of course," said Nancy, with a flame in her cheek.
"But it would please me very much if you would send it back to him."
"If I wanted to," she told him, "I couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Can you mail parcel post packages to the--Flying Dutchman? Or express
things to--to Odin?"
"I don't in the least know what you are talking about, Nancy."
"Well, he sailed in and he sailed out. He didn't leave any address. He
left the cloak--and a rather intriguing memory, Anthony."
That was all the satisfaction she would give him. And I am not sure that
he deserved more at her hands. The agreement between them had
been--absolute freedom.
I am convinced that if it had not been for the garden party I should
never have shown Olaf's letter to Nancy. The garden party is an annual
event. We always hold it in August, when the "off-islanders" crowd the
hotels, and when money is more plentiful than at any other time during
the year.
Nancy had charge of the fish pond. I had helped her to make the fish,
which were gay objects of painted paper, numbered to indicate a
corresponding prize package, and to be caught with a dangling line from
a lily-wreathed artificial pool.
The day of the garden party was a glorious one--with the air so clear
that the flying pennants of the decorated booths, and the gowns of the
women, gained brilliancy and beauty from the shining atmosphere.
Nancy wore a broad blue hat which matched her eyes, one of her clear
white dresses, and a silken scarf of the same blue as her hat. She loved
children, and as she stood in a circle of them all the afternoon,
untiring, eager--bending down to them, hooking the fish on the dangling
line--handing out the prizes, smiling into the flushed eager faces,
helping the very littlest ones to achieve a catch, I sat in a chair not
far away from her and watched. I saw Anthony come and go, urging her to
let some one else take her place, pressing a dozen reasons upon her for
desertion of her task, and coming back, when she refused, to complain to
me:
"Such things are a deadly bore."
"Not to Nancy."
"But they used to be. She's changed, Elizabeth."
"Beautifully changed."
"I am not sure. She was always such, a good sport."
"And isn't she now?"
"She is different," he caught himself up, "but of course--adorable."
Mimi Sears joined us, and she and Anthony went off together. Bob Needham
hung around Nancy until she sent him away. At last the hour arrived for
the open-air play which was a special attraction, and the crowds surged
toward the inclosure. The booths were deserted, and only one
rapturous child remained by the fish pond.
Nancy sat down and lifted the baby to her lap. She had taken off her
hat, and her blue scarf fell about her. Something tugged at my heart as
I looked at her. With that little head in the hollow of her arm she was
the eternal mother.
I saw Anthony approaching. He stopped, and I caught his words. "You must
come now, Nancy. I am saving a seat for you."
She shook her head, and looked down at the child. "I told his nurse to
go and he is almost asleep."
He flung himself away from her and came over to me. "I have good seats
for both of you in the enclosure. But Nancy won't go."
I rose and went with him, although I should have been content to sit
there by the fish pond and feast my eyes on Nancy.
"It is perfectly silly of her to stay," Anthony fumed as we walked on
together.
"But she loves the children."
"I hate children."
I am sure that he did not mean it. What he hated was the fact that the
child had for the moment held Nancy from him. It was as if, looking
forward into the future, he could see like moments, and set himself
against the thought of any interruption of what might be otherwise an
untrammeled and independent partnership. He had, I think, little
jealousy where men were concerned. He was willing to give Nancy the
reins and let her go, believing that she would inevitably come back to
him. He was not, perhaps, so willing to trust her with ties which might
prove more absorbing than himself.
If I had not had Olaf's letter, I might not have weighed Anthony's
attitude so carefully, but against those burning words and their
comprehension of the divinity and beauty of my Nancy's nature, Anthony's
querulous complaint struck cold.
I think it was then, as we walked toward the inclosure, that I made
up my mind to let Nancy hear what Olaf had to say to her.
She stayed out late that night--there was a dinner and a dance--and
Anthony brought her home. I confess that I felt like a traitor as I
heard the murmur of his voice in the hall.
But when he had gone, and Nancy passed my door on her way to her room, I
called her, and she came in.
I was in bed, and I had the letter in my hand. "I want you to read it,"
I said. "It is from Olaf Thoresen."