William came back from his business trip the eighth of July, and on the
ninth Billy and Bertram went to New York. Eliza's mother was so well
now that Eliza had taken up her old quarters in the Strata, and the
household affairs were once more running like clockwork. Later in the
season William would go away for a month's fishing trip, and the house
would be closed.
Mr. and Mrs. Bertram Henshaw were not expected to return until the first
of October; but with Eliza to look after the comfort of William, the
mistress of the house did no worrying. Ever since Pete's going, Eliza
had said that she preferred to be the only maid, with a charwoman to
come in for the heavier work; and to this arrangement her mistress had
willingly consented, for the present.
Marie and the babies were doing finely, and Aunt Hannah's health, and
affairs at the Annex, were all that could be desired. As Billy, indeed,
saw it, there was only one flaw to mar her perfect content on this
holiday trip with Bertram, and that was her disappointment over the very
evident disaster that had come to her cherished matrimonial plans for
Arkwright and Alice Greggory. She could not forget Arkwright's face
that day at the Annex, when she had so foolishly called his attention
to Calderwell's devotion; and she could not forget, either, Alice
Greggory's very obvious perturbation a little later, and her
suspiciously emphatic assertion that she had no intention of marrying
any one, certainly not Arkwright. As Billy thought of all this now, she
could not but admit that it did look dark for Arkwright--poor Arkwright,
whom she, more than any one else in the world, perhaps, had a special
reason for wishing to see happily married.
There was, then, this one cloud on Billy's horizon as the big boat that
was to bear her across the water steamed down the harbor that beautiful
July day.
As it chanced, naturally, perhaps, not only was Billy thinking of
Arkwright that morning, but Arkwright was thinking of Billy.
Arkwright had thought frequently of Billy during the last few days,
particularly since that afternoon meeting at the Annex when the four had
renewed their old good times together. Up to that day Arkwright had been
trying not to think of Billy. He had been “fighting his tiger skin.”
Sternly he had been forcing himself to meet her, to see her, to talk
with her, to sing with her, or to pass her by--all with the indifference
properly expected to be shown in association with Mrs. Bertram Henshaw,
another man's wife. He had known, of course, that deep down in his
heart he loved her, always had loved her, and always would love her.
Hopelessly and drearily he accepted this as a fact even while with all
his might fighting that tiger skin. So sure was he, indeed, of this, so
implicitly had he accepted it as an unalterable certainty, that in time
even his efforts to fight it became almost mechanical and unconscious in
their stern round of forced indifference.
Then came that day at the Annex--and the discovery: the discovery which
he had made when Billy called his attention to Calderwell and Alice
Greggory across the room in the corner; the discovery which had come
with so blinding a force, and which even now he was tempted to question
as to its reality; the discovery that not Billy Neilson, nor Mrs.
Bertram Henshaw, nor even the tender ghost of a lost love held the
center of his heart--but Alice Greggory.
The first intimation of all this had come with his curious feeling of
unreasoning hatred and blind indignation toward Calderwell as,
through Billy's eyes, he had seen the two together. Then had come
the overwhelming longing to pick up Alice Greggory and run off with
her--somewhere, anywhere, so that Calderwell could not follow.
At once, however, he had pulled himself up short with the mental cry of
“Absurd!” What was it to him if Calderwell did care for Alice Greggory?
Surely he himself was not in love with the girl. He was in love with
Billy; that is--
It was all confusion then, in his mind, and he was glad indeed when he
could leave the house. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to think. He
must, in some way, thrash out this astounding thing that had come to
him.
Arkwright did not visit the Annex again for some days. Until he was more
nearly sure of himself and of his feelings, he did not wish to see Alice
Greggory. It was then that he began to think of Billy, deliberately,
purposefully, for it must be, of course, that he had made a mistake,
he told himself. It must be that he did, really, still care for
Billy--though of course he ought not to.
Arkwright made another discovery then. He learned that, however
deliberately he started in to think of Billy, he ended every time in
thinking of Alice. He thought of how good she had been to him, and of
how faithful she had been in helping him to fight his love for Billy.
Just here he decided, for a moment, that probably, after all, his
feeling of anger against Calderwell was merely the fear of losing this
helpful comradeship that he so needed. Even with himself, however,
Arkwright could not keep up this farce long, and very soon he admitted
miserably that it was not the comradeship of Alice Greggory that he
wanted or needed, but the love.
He knew it now. No longer was there any use in beating about the bush.
He did love Alice Greggory; but so curiously and unbelievably stupid had
he been that he had not found it out until now. And now it was too late.
Had not even Billy called his attention to the fact of Calderwell's
devotion? Besides, had not he himself, at the very first, told
Calderwell that he might have a clear field?
Fool that he had been to let another thus lightly step in and win from
under his very nose what might have been his if he had but known his own
mind before it was too late!
But was it, after all, quite too late? He and Alice were old friends.
Away back in their young days in their native town they had been,
indeed, almost sweethearts, in a boy-and-girl fashion. It would not have
taken much in those days, he believed, to have made the relationship
more interesting. But changes had come. Alice had left town, and for
years they had drifted apart. Then had come Billy, and Billy had found
Alice, thus bringing about the odd circumstance of their renewing of
acquaintanceship. Perhaps, at that time, if he had not already
thought he cared for Billy, there would have been something more than
acquaintanceship.
But he _had_ thought he cared for Billy all these years; and now, at
this late day, to wake up and find that he cared for Alice! A pretty
mess he had made of things! Was he so inconstant then, so fickle? Did he
not know his own mind five minutes at a time? What would Alice Greggory
think, even if he found the courage to tell her? What could she think?
What could anybody think?
Arkwright fairly ground his teeth in impotent wrath--and he did not know
whether he were the most angry that he did not love Billy, or that he
had loved Billy, or that he loved somebody else now.
It was while he was in this unenviable frame of mind that he went to
see Alice. Not that he had planned definitely to speak to her of his
discovery, nor yet that he had planned not to. He had, indeed, planned
nothing. For a man usually so decided as to purpose and energetic as
to action, he was in a most unhappy state of uncertainty and
changeableness. One thing only was unmistakably clear to him, and that
was that he must see Alice.
For months, now, he had taken to Alice all his hopes and griefs,
perplexities and problems; and never had he failed to find comfort
in the shape of sympathetic understanding and wise counsel. To Alice,
therefore, now he turned as a matter of course, telling himself vaguely
that, perhaps, after he had seen Alice, he would feel better.
Just how intimately this particular problem of his concerned Alice
herself, he did not stop to realize. He did not, indeed, think of it at
all from Alice's standpoint--until he came face to face with the girl in
the living-room at the Annex. Then, suddenly, he did. His manner became
at once, consequently, full of embarrassment and quite devoid of its
usual frank friendliness.
As it happened, this was perhaps the most unfortunate thing that could
have occurred, so far as it concerned the attitude of Alice Greggory,
for thereby innumerable tiny sparks of suspicion that had been
tormenting the girl for days were instantly fanned into consuming flames
of conviction.
Alice had not been slow to note Arkwright's prolonged absence from the
Annex. Coming as it did so soon after her most disconcerting talk with
Billy in regard to her own relations with him, it had filled her with
frightened questionings.
If Billy had seen things to make her think of linking their names
together, perhaps Arkwright himself had heard some such idea put forth
somewhere, and that was why he was staying away--to show the world that
there was no foundation for such rumors. Perhaps he was even doing it to
show _her_ that--
Even in her thoughts Alice could scarcely bring herself to finish the
sentence. That Arkwright should ever suspect for a moment that she cared
for him was intolerable. Painfully conscious as she was that she did
care for him, it was easy to fear that others must be conscious of it,
too. Had she not already proof that Billy suspected it? Why, then, might
not it be quite possible, even probable, that Arkwright suspected it,
also; and, because he did suspect it, had decided that it would be just
as well, perhaps, if he did not call so often.
In spite of Alice's angry insistence to herself that, after all, this
could not be the case--that the man _knew_ she understood he still loved
Billy--she could not help fearing, in the face of Arkwright's unusual
absence, that it might yet be true. When, therefore, he finally did
appear, only to become at once obviously embarrassed in her presence,
her fears instantly became convictions. It was true, then. The man did
believe she cared for him, and he had been trying to teach her--to save
her.
To teach her! To save her, indeed! Very well, he should see! And
forthwith, from that moment, Alice Greggory's chief reason for living
became to prove to Mr. M. J. Arkwright that he needed not to teach her,
to save her, nor yet to sympathize with her.
“How do you do?” she greeted him, with a particularly bright smile. “I'm
sure I _hope_ you are well, such a beautiful day as this.”
“Oh, yes, I'm well, I suppose. Still, I have felt better in my life,”
smiled Arkwright, with some constraint.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” murmured the girl, striving so hard to speak with
impersonal unconcern that she did not notice the inaptness of her reply.
“Eh? Sorry I've felt better, are you?” retorted Arkwright, with nervous
humor. Then, because he was embarrassed, he said the one thing he had
meant not to say: “Don't you think I'm quite a stranger? It's been some
time since I've been here.”
Alice, smarting under the sting of what she judged to be the only
possible cause for his embarrassment, leaped to this new opportunity to
show her lack of interest.
“Oh, has it?” she murmured carelessly. “Well, I don't know but it has,
now that I come to think of it.”
Arkwright frowned gloomily. A week ago he would have tossed back a
laughingly aggrieved remark as to her unflattering indifference to his
presence. Now he was in no mood for such joking. It was too serious a
matter with him.
“You've been busy, no doubt, with--other matters,” he presumed
forlornly, thinking of Calderwell.
“Yes, I have been busy,” assented the girl. “One is always happier,
I think, to be busy. Not that I meant that I needed the work to _be_
happy,” she added hastily, in a panic lest he think she had a consuming
sorrow to kill.
“No, of course not,” he murmured abstractedly, rising to his feet and
crossing the room to the piano. Then, with an elaborate air of trying to
appear very natural, he asked jovially: “Anything new to play to me?”
Alice arose at once.
“Yes. I have a little nocturne that I was playing to Mr. Calderwell last
night.”
“Oh, to Calderwell!” Arkwright had stiffened perceptibly.
“Yes. _He_ didn't like it. I'll play it to you and see what you say,”
she smiled, seating herself at the piano.
“Well, if he had liked it, it's safe to say I shouldn't,” shrugged
Arkwright.
“Nonsense!” laughed the girl, beginning to appear more like her natural
self. “I should think you were Mr. Cyril Henshaw! Mr. Calderwell _is_
partial to ragtime, I'll admit. But there are some good things he
likes.”
“There are, indeed, _some_ good things he likes,” returned Arkwright,
with grim emphasis, his somber eyes fixed on what he believed to be the
one especial object of Calderwell's affections at the moment.
Alice, unaware both of the melancholy gaze bent upon herself and of the
cause thereof, laughed again merrily.
“Poor Mr. Calderwell,” she cried, as she let her fingers slide into
soft, introductory chords. “He isn't to blame for not liking what he
calls our lost spirits that wail. It's just the way he's made.”
Arkwright vouchsafed no reply. With an abrupt gesture he turned and
began to pace the room moodily. At the piano Alice slipped from the
chords into the nocturne. She played it straight through, then, with a
charm and skill that brought Arkwright's feet to a pause before it was
half finished.
“By George, that's great!” he breathed, when the last tone had quivered
into silence.
“Yes, isn't it--beautiful?” she murmured.
The room was very quiet, and in semi-darkness. The last rays of a late
June sunset had been filling the room with golden light, but it was gone
now. Even at the piano by the window, Alice had barely been able to see
clearly enough to read the notes of her nocturne.
To Arkwright the air still trembled with the exquisite melody that had
but just left her fingers. A quick fire came to his eyes. He forgot
everything but that it was Alice there in the half-light by the
window--Alice, whom he loved. With a low cry he took a swift step toward
her.
“Alice!”
Instantly the girl was on her feet. But it was not toward him that she
turned. It was away--resolutely, and with a haste that was strangely
like terror.
Alice, too, had forgotten, for just a moment. She had let herself drift
into a dream world where there was nothing but the music she was playing
and the man she loved. Then the music had stopped, and the man had
spoken her name.
Alice remembered then. She remembered Billy, whom this man loved. She
remembered the long days just passed when this man had stayed away,
presumably to teach _her_--to save _her_. And now, at the sound of his
voice speaking her name, she had almost bared her heart to him.
No wonder that Alice, with a haste that looked like terror, crossed the
floor and flooded the room with light.
“Dear me!” she shivered, carefully avoiding Arkwright's eyes. “If Mr.
Calderwell were here now he'd have some excuse to talk about our lost
spirits that wail. That _is_ a creepy piece of music when you play it
in the dark!” And, for fear that he should suspect how her heart was
aching, she gave a particularly brilliant and joyous smile.
Once again at the mention of Calderwell's name Arkwright stiffened
perceptibly. The fire left his eyes. For a moment he did not speak;
then, gravely, he said:
“Calderwell? Yes, perhaps he would; and--you ought to be a judge, I
should think. You see him quite frequently, don't you?”
“Why, yes, of course. He often comes out here, you know.”
“Yes; I had heard that he did--since _you_ came.”
His meaning was unmistakable. Alice looked up quickly. A prompt denial
of his implication was on her lips when the thought came to her that
perhaps just here lay a sure way to prove to this man before her that
there was, indeed, no need for him to teach her, to save her, or yet to
sympathize with her. She could not affirm, of course; but she need not
deny--yet.
“Nonsense!” she laughed lightly, pleased that she could feel what she
hoped would pass for a telltale color burning her cheeks. “Come, let
us try some duets,” she proposed, leading the way to the piano. And
Arkwright, interpreting the apparently embarrassed change of subject
exactly as she had hoped that he would interpret it, followed her, sick
at heart.
“'O wert thou in the cauld blast,'” sang Arkwright's lips a few moments
later.
“I can't tell her now--when I _know_ she cares for Calderwell,” gloomily
ran his thoughts, the while. “It would do no possible good, and would
only make her unhappy to grieve me.”
“'O wert thou in the cauld blast,'” chimed in Alice's alto, low and
sweet.
“I reckon now he won't be staying away from here any more just to _save_
me!” ran Alice's thoughts, palpitatingly triumphant.