As she did not encourage him, he addressed himself to the hash, which
was the kind he liked--brown and not too dry, and with the potatoes in
little cubes. She poured her coffee, just touched one of Mazie's famous
corn muffins as she slowly drank it, and gave herself up to the clear
and calm daylight reflections that make comment so cynical and so severe
upon what we do and say and think under the spell of night. She put on
a waterproof hat and suit, leggings and boots, and issued forth for a
two-hours' tramp with Winchie, who was dressed in the same fashion. When
they got back at ten, she felt she was not the same woman as the one who
had the adventure with the burglar on the balcony. She saw Winchie into
dry clothes and settled at his rainy-day games--then out she went again.
She walked rapidly along the path to the Smoke House; was soon rapping
at the heavy iron door of the laboratory. She rapped again and again,
turned away angry, was almost back at the edge of the shrubbery when she
remembered that Richard had locked the laboratory, that Basil could not
possibly be there.
She hesitated, returned to the Smoke House, knocked at the door of the
stairway leading up to the suite. No answer. She opened it, went
upstairs. At the top she paused, called, "Anybody here?"
Basil appeared in the doorway of the sitting room. He was in a
dark-blue summer house suit, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
His face was very red; his eyes did not meet hers. "Lizzie straightened
up and left about half an hour ago," said he.
"I came for a look round," explained she, admiring, without seeming to
do so, his elegant and fashionable suit, the harmony of its color with
his soft negligee shirt and flowing artist's tie. But then she always
liked the way he dressed, the way he wore his clothes. "I come once a
week in the morning to keep Lizzie up to the mark," she went on.
"You're down in the laboratory at that time, so you haven't known what a
model housekeeper I am."
He did not stand aside for her to enter.
"I also had another reason," pursued she. "Please don't choke up the
doorway. I'm coming in."
He bowed, stood aside. She entered, glanced round the sober but not
somber room with its walls, ceilings, floor, and furniture of walnut.
It was a comfortable place and beautifully clean. "Jimmie attends to
the floors?"
"Every week."
She glanced into the adjoining room--kalsomined walls and ceiling, a
white oak floor, a big chest of drawers, a big mirror, a big table and
chair, a roomy brass bedstead. "Any complaints?"
"Everything perfectly satisfactory," he assured her.
"Now for my other business--my real business," said she, disposing
herself in one of the window seats. "You may continue to stand, if you
prefer; but it would please me better if you sat."
He seated himself stiffly at the table desk. Her eyes were dancing with
amusement at his overelaborated formality. It made him seem such a boy,
made her feel vastly wiser and stronger and older than he.
"Why didn't you come to breakfast?" she inquired in a most businesslike
tone.
"I made up my mind not to see you again until Vaughan returned."
"And then, to go away?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I prefer not to answer that."
"Why not?"
"It's true Vaughan and I are not exactly friends. Still, I've been
disloyal. I shall be so no more."
She clasped her hands round one knee, looked at him with half closed
eyes. "I do not like to be regarded as part of some one's else
belongings," said she. "I belong to myself."
"I wish to God you did!"
"You attach too much importance to what a woman says and does on
impulse. I was much upset last night. I said and did things that seem
absurd to me in daylight."
"I am just as absurd, as you call it, in daylight as I was in
moonlight."
She flinched, controlled herself, made an impatient gesture. "Don't say
those things, or you'll spoil everything," she half pleaded, half
commanded.
He strode to a window across the room from that in which she was
sitting. "Everything is spoiled. I've simply got to go."
"No." She shook her head slowly. "You will stay, and we'll be friends
again, as before."
"If I could only wipe out last night!" he cried, and he wheeled upon
her.
She caught her breath. "Do you mean that?" she asked impulsively.
He stopped short, faced her, but his eyes were down. "No, I don't,"
replied he. "And that's the devil of it."
"Why?"
"If I honestly regretted last night, I could stay."
"Why do you lie to yourself?" she asked, crossing the room toward him.
"You have no real intention of going."
His gaze sank. "I shall try to go," he muttered.
She laughed--after she had returned to the safer distance of the window
seat. "What a passion for hypocrisy you men have. 'I shall try.' You
hope that last tiny rag of a remnant will cover your real purpose."
"You think I am a dishonorable dog. I don't wonder at it."
"No, I don't. But I do think you are taking yourself entirely too
seriously. You don't want to go, do you? And I don't wish you to go.
And Richard doesn't want you to go."
"He'd compel it if he knew."
"But he doesn't know. Maybe, if I knew some things about you, I'd want
you to go. Maybe, if you knew me thoroughly, you'd be eager to go. As
it is, we all want things to stay as they are."
"Last night was a warning."
"Yes," she hastened to assent. "Let's heed it. Let's go back to
friendship and not wander. My friend, you're letting your mind hang
over just one subject, just one side of the relations of men and women.
Isn't there more to me than--that?"
"Courtney!" he protested.
"Then let's be friends. Let's put aside what we can't have. Let's take
and enjoy what we can. Let's not talk or think about--about love--any
more than one frets about not being able to visit the moon. We've been
finding life happy these last few weeks, with that subject never
mentioned. Why not again? Are you too weak? Am I too uninteresting?"
"I tried once before and failed."
"But now that we've looked the situation straight in the face--now that
we're both on guard--don't you think we can do better?"
"I don't know," he confessed. "I'm afraid to try--aren't you?"
Her eyes held him, they were so mysterious. "Not so much as I'm afraid
not to try," replied she slowly.
He dropped into his chair again, sat staring at the blotting pad on the
desk.
"Had you thought," she went on, "what would happen if we owned ourselves
beaten and fled from each other?"
He presently lifted his eyes, looked at her in wonder. "And that never
occurred to me!" he cried. "Why, our only chance now is to stay here
and fight it out. If we shirked and tried to escape--" He paused.
She nodded gravely.
"If I went away, it'd only be to come back--desperate. And you----"
He did not finish his sentence. They sat silent a long time. "It would
be horribly lonely with you gone," said she in an absent, impersonal
way. "And loneliness breeds such wild longings."
A long silence. Then she rose. "Come up to the house and help me with
those plans for a kitchen garden under glass," she suggested.
He nodded without looking at her, as if to show her that he understood
all and accepted what was beyond question the less dangerous of their
alternatives. "As soon as I dress, I'll be there," said he.
"I forgot. I must change, too. In an hour?"
"Less."
They shook hands in an emphatically comradely fashion, and she went.
The former conditions were restored. They would not permit them to be
interrupted again. They would demonstrate that, with a thousand,
thousand other things, interesting, amusing, to talk and to think about,
they could bar out love and keep it out.
An hour over the plans, then they had dinner, laughing and joking
together like two children. They did not heed or even note the gloom of
Winchie and old Nanny--she was waiting, as it was Lizzie's day out.
Winchie sat mum and glum, eating in the deliberate way Courtney had
taught him and never lifting his jealous eyes from his plate.
Nanny--middle-aged, homely, prim with the added sourness of those who
have never had the least temptation to be otherwise--Nanny glowered at
Gallatin every time she came into the room. She had disapproved of him
from the outset and had made no secret of it. This gayety of his, in
the absence of the head of the house of Vaughan, changed that dinner for
her into a Babylonish revel. She was shocked at Courtney's taking part,
but was not surprised. What was to be expected of the weak and
frivolous younger generation of her own sex, mad about adorning the
body, scornful of the idea of "settling," and incredulous as to hell
fire? Her anger concentrated on Gallatin. He was a man; he seemed a
serious, moral man. Yet here he was, leading on the vain, weak
woman--he a guest of Mr. Vaughan's--trusted by him--put upon his honor.
"It's enough to bring Colonel 'Kill back a-harntin'," muttered she into
the oven.... Early in the afternoon it cleared gloriously. Outdoors,
the two trespassers upon ancient propriety giddied into still higher
spirits. And after supper! They banged on the piano and sang "coon"
songs and became so hilarious "that you'd think the settin' room was
full," said Jimmie to his aunt.
Nanny scowled at the blue yarn sock she was knitting with wrinkled,
rheumatism-knotted fingers. "Such goings-on!" she growled.
"Why not?" demanded Jimmie. "Where's the harm? And I reckon Mrs. V.
knows how to take care of herself."
"Who said she didn't?" snapped Nanny.
Toward nine Courtney and Basil went out on the veranda. It was a
perfect August night. The honeysuckle in great masses upon the rail was
giving forth an odor that quieted them like pensive music. Under the
trees and among the bushes the now pale, now bright lamps of the
"lightning bugs" shone by scores and hundreds. There was a moon, sailing
high and almost full. She thought she had never been so happy in her
life. At former happy times there was in her no such capacity to
appreciate and enjoy as experience had now given her. And what an ideal
companion Basil was--so much the man of the world, wise, experienced,
yet simple and amazingly modest. And how marvelously they fitted into
each other's moods! She had never thought to find a human being with
just the right combination of qualities--one who could be
serious--always in an interesting way--and also as light as the
lightest.
"Look at those elder blossoms," said Basil in a low voice, as if louder
tones might break the spell and dissolve the beauty, delicate, fragile,
unreal.
Elder bushes were the outer wall of the eastern shrubbery; their
flowers, soft, feathery mats, deliciously sweet to smell, looked at that
distance and in that light like a wall of snow. Courtney and Basil
descended from the veranda, strolled across the lawn. She lifted her
head, seemed to drink in the beauty with her whole face, and to exhale
it in a newer, subtler loveliness and perfume.
"How sweet the boxwood hedge is after to-day's rain."
As they neared the water's edge, all other perfumes yielded to the
powerful, heavy, sensuous odor of the locust blossoms, in white clusters
above the bench on which they presently sat. They were silent, gazing
across the lake where, in contrast to the darkness and silence of their
shore, lay the town, a shimmer of light, a murmur of confused sounds
mingling pleasantly. Down the lake, far out beyond the edge of the
heavy shadow flung by the trees, a boat was coming, the man rowing, the
girl playing the mandolin and singing. The tinkling of the mandolin and
the fresh young voice floated over the waters to Courtney and Basil.
She drew in her breath sharply, with a sense of alluring danger
hovering. The boat drew nearer; the sounds were clearer--clearer, more
tender, more moving. The mandolin tinkled. The free, sweet young voice
sang: "I want you--ma honey!--yes I do! I want you--I want you----"
She clasped, clinched her hands in her lap. Basil started up. "I can't
bear it!" he cried. "I can't!"
"No--no!" she exclaimed, and her strange look suggested a soul drowning.
"Go--go quickly!" And drawing her white shawl about her shoulders, she
fled into the house.
*XI*
"Where's Mr. Gallatin?" asked Winchie, as he and his mother were
finishing breakfast next morning.
"At the Smoke House, I guess," replied she. There was a far-away look
in her eyes, and their lids were heavy. Although Lizzie had been
unusually unsuccessful in arranging the flowers, she left the bowl
untouched in the center of the table--a solid mass of carnations which
she could have changed into a miracle of lightness and grace.
"Is he coming to breakfast?" asked Winchie.
"No--at least, I suppose not. How'd you like to go to grandpa's?"
"Will Mr. Gallatin go?"
Courtney's cheeks flushed. "No," she said.
"Then I'd like it--for a while."
"We are going to-morrow," said Courtney. "To-morrow morning."
"Is grandpa sick?"
"No. Nobody is sick."
"Then why?"
Courtney's face wore a queer smile. "We'll help grandma and Aunt Lal
and Aunt Ann put up fruit and jam and preserves."
"Will we stay long?" inquired the boy anxiously.
"Until--until your father--gets back."
Winchie looked much downcast. "Why?" he asked.
"Why not?" said Courtney. "And now, you'll help me pack and I'll help
you."
It was a busy day, as there were many things to arrange besides the
packing. Gallatin did not appear at the house all day, and Courtney did
not expect him. Toward ten that night the packing was finished and
everything ready for an early departure. Courtney went downstairs and
out across the moonlit lawn. Slowly, with gaze straight ahead, she
strolled toward the lake, toward the summer house in the copse at the
western edge of the grounds. She entered, curled herself up on the
broad seat, her elbow upon the rail, her hand supporting her chin. She
watched the moonlight in the ripples along the middle of the lake. From
time to time, she lifted her head, strained her eyes into the encircling
shadows, then resumed her attitude, mental as well as physical, of
forlorn abstraction. Something less than half an hour, and when she
lifted herself to glance round for the third or fourth time, she did not
sink back, but slowly straightened, her breath coming quickly.
"Who's there?" she called softly, addressing the deep shadows over the
path by which she had come.
No answer but the chorus of tiny creatures murmuring excitedly in every
crevice and beneath every blade and leaf.
"Who is it?" she demanded, but not loudly or nervously. She stood up.
"Only I," came in Basil's voice, and he advanced and stood between the
entrance pillars of the open rustic pavilion.
"Oh!" said she. And she resumed gazing over the water, but did not
resume her seat.
"I saw you cross the lawn," he explained. "And I was afraid some one
might intrude."
"Thank you," said she gratefully.
"You knew it was I--didn't you?" he went on.
A brief silence, then--"Yes," she admitted, and gave a little laugh.
"Why do you laugh?"
"Because I just realized that I was expecting you--that I came here
hoping to see you. How one does lie to oneself!"
"Do you wish me to leave you?"
"No.... What a beautiful night it is!"
"The loveliest I ever saw."
"These locust blossoms-- The perfume makes me feel languid--but not
sleepy."
"I guess it is the locusts," he said. "I feel that way, too."
"I'm taking Winchie to my father's for a visit--in the morning."
"So Jimmie said."
"We'll stay until Richard comes back."
"I supposed so."
A silence. Then she: "I must go in soon," and an instant later, without
realizing it, seated herself.
"I wrote to Starky--Estelle--to-day.... To ask her to fix the date for
the marriage."
She shivered.
"I decided it was best for me to commit myself."
She buried her face in her hands.
"And," he went on, "you know I shall always love you--_always_! ... I
say that because--in a few minutes now we'll part, and never see each
other again."
With her face between her hands, she gazed at the dancing surface of the
watery highway of moonlight, and repeated monotonously--"never see each
other again." Then, after a moment, "How heavy the perfume of the
locusts is."
"Yes," replied he, "but so sweet."
Then the thin film of surface over their emotions suddenly burst.
"Never again--oh, my Courtney!" he cried between set teeth. Both had
thought all day that they were calm and resigned. They knew now how
they had been deceiving themselves. He flung away from her. Both knew
what was coming, knew it was too late to save themselves, felt the wild
reckless thrill of terror and rapture that precedes the breaking down of
all barriers, the breaking up of all foundations, the free sweep of
unfettered passion. So young--so young--with such a long stretch of
empty years--and they never to see each other again!
"How can I live on, without you to help me?" she said.
"It'll be easier for you than for me. You have--your boy. I
have--nothing." He sat down, away from her, stared into the blackness
of the copse. "Nothing," he repeated. He was holding his breath and
waiting for the inevitable storm to break.
"Basil!" she cried, and in impulsive sympathy reached out and touched
him. "Won't it be something--to know that you have my heart--my--love?"
She felt him trembling, and there was a sob in his voice as he answered:
"But when your arms ache with emptiness, you can put them round Winchie.
While I--Courtney, how can I touch another woman, when it's
you--you--_you_--" And his groping hand met hers, clasped it. He bent
his head, kissed her hand--the back, the palm, then the fingers one by
one. And they softly touched his cheek. "Basil!" she sighed.
The faint wind agitated the clusters of locust blooms; their perfume
descended in heavy voluptuous waves. He pressed his hands one against
each of her cheeks. "Courtney," he murmured. "My love--my dear love!"
Their lips met.
"We must not!" she pleaded, her arms about his neck.
"After to-night," he reminded her, "we, who love, will never see each
other again."
"Never again!" she moaned.
It was the signal both were unconsciously, yet deliberately, awaiting.
He gave an inarticulate cry, caught her up as a strong wind a flower.
"I've had enough of right and wrong," cried he. "You are mine! I will
not let you go. I love you--I love you--I love you!" And he showered
kisses upon her until she, dizzy and fainting, yet never so alive, was
clinging to him, was calling him endearing names, was laughing and
sobbing. And in that darkness and mad frenzy of longing and despair
they could pretend to themselves that it was all as unreal as a
dream--was, in fact, a dream, or at worst, impulse--irresistible,
irresponsible.
He felt her heart flutter, halt in its steady, strong beat within her
breast close against his. She raised her head from his shoulder,
listened. "What is it?" he whispered.
"Listen."
A bird broke from the copse and with a great noise of wings against
leaves blundered away to another and higher place. "A bird--that was
all," said he.
"Sh--h! No. They never stir so suddenly at night without cause." She
was cold, was shivering. They looked at each other, tingling with
guilty alarm.
"I'll go see."
"Yes--do."
He disengaged himself lingeringly, with a parting caress of his lips
along her cheek. "It's cold," she murmured. "And I'm--I'm afraid."
Never before in all her life had she been afraid.
He went softly along the path until the shadows hid him. After a moment
he returned to the entrance. "I see nothing," said he.
"And I hear nothing--any more," replied she. "You don't know what a
queer, creepy sensation I had. It was--was--as if some one were near
us."
He did not seat himself by her again. "Isn't it--very--very late?" he
said hesitatingly.
"Perhaps. But come, dear. Let's forget. It was nothing. Oh, I was so
happy--and now--Basil, I'm cold."
Instead of sitting and taking her in his arms he drew her to her feet.
"I saw your front door open," he said. "I think you'd better go."