JOHNNY BECOMES INEVITABLE
She did not speak. She was afraid she was going to burst into tears. Her
knees were trembling and she sat down with the effect of collapse and
looked mutely up at Johnny.
"Judas," said Johnny bitterly.
He stared around once more, evading her eyes now, and then he moved over
and sat down beside her, drawing out his cigarettes.
Slowly he took one, tapped its end upon a rock, and lighted it. Then,
the case still open, he looked inquiringly at her.
"Smoke, Ri-Ri?" he questioned. "Ought to--never too late to learn."
She shook her head, smiling faintly. She knew his own perturbation must
be immense. She did not want to add to it; she wanted to be brave and
conceal her own agony.
He put the cigarettes away and from an inner pocket drew out a cake of
chocolate.
"Supper," he announced.
She broke the cake in two even halves, giving him back one. He took but
half of that. With the cigarette between his lips he felt better. Slowly
he relaxed.
"I'll have to teach you how to smoke," he said, blowing rings. "When
we're rested we'll get some wood and build a fire. The others will see
that and signal back and we'll make connections."
At that she stared, round-eyed. "Wait for a fire?" Incredulously she
straightened. Her voice grew breathless. "Oh, no, we must go--we must
go," she said with a hint of wildness in her urgency.
Deliberately Johnny leaned back. "Go? Go where?"
"Go down. Go to where the others are. We must find them."
"Nothing doing." Johnny rubbed a stout leg. "Your Uncle Dudley is all
in. So are you."
"But I can go, I am able to go on," she insisted. "And I would
rather--Oh, if you please, I would so much rather go on at once. We
cannot wait like this."
"I'll say we can wait like this. Watch me."
"But we cannot stay----"
"Well, we cannot go," said Johnny mimicking. "We'd get nowhere if we did
try. We'd just go round and round. Our best bet is to stay on this peak
and signal. Believe me, I'm not going to stir for one long while."
Again the fear of tears choked back the words that rushed upon her. She
told herself that she must not be weak and frantic and make a scene.
. . . Men abhorred scenes. And it would not help. It would only anger
him. He was tired now. He was not thinking of her. He had not realized
the situation.
Presently he would realize. . . . And, anyway, he was there with her, he
would take care of her, protect her from the tongues of gossip.
Slowly Johnny smoked two cigarettes, then he rose and gathered sticks
for a fire. It burned briskly, its swift flame throwing a glowing circle
about them and extinguishing the rest of the world.
There had been no sunset. A bank of clouds had swallowed the last
vestige of ruddy light. The mountain peaks darkened. It was growing
night.
"We'll wait for moonlight," said Johnny Byrd.
But at that Maria Angelina's eyes came away from those mountains which
she was unremittingly watching for an answering fire and fixed
themselves upon his face in startled horror.
"Moonlight!" she gasped. "But no--no! We must not wait any more. It is
too late now. We must get down as soon as we can."
"Why, you little baby!" Johnny Byrd moved nearer to her. "What you
'fraid of, Ri-Ri? We can't help how late it is, can we?"
He put an arm about her and drew her gently close, and because she was
so tired and frightened and upset Maria Angelina could no longer resist
the tears that came blinding her eyes.
"You little baby!" said Johnny again softly, and suddenly she felt his
kiss upon her cheek.
"Poor little Ri-Ri! Poor tired little girl!"
"Oh, you must not. Signor, you must not."
"Signor," he said reproachfully.
"J-Johnny," she choked.
"That's better. . . . All right, I'll be good, Ri-Ri. Just sit still.
And I'll be good."
But firmly he kept his arm about her and soon her tense little figure
relaxed in that strong clasp. She was not frightened, as last night at
the dance, she felt utterly forlorn and comforted by his strength.
They sat very still, unspeaking in that silent embrace, and about them
it grew colder and darker while the sky seemed to grow thinner and
grayer and clear. And at last against the pallor of the sky, mountain
after mountain lifted itself out of the shadowy cloud mass, and peak
after peak defined itself, stretching on and on like an army of giants.
Then the ridges grew blacker again, and back of one edge a sharp flare
of light flamed, and a blood red disc of a moon came pushing furiously
up into the sky, flinging down a transforming radiance.
In the valley the silvery birches gleamed like wood nymphs against the
ebony firs.
Beauty had touched the world again. A long breath came fluttering from
the girl's lips; she felt strangely solaced and comforted. After all, it
was Johnny with her . . . the fairy prince. Her dreams were coming true
. . . even under the shadow of this tragedy.
Again she felt his lips upon her cheek and now he was trying to turn her
head towards him. Mutely she resisted, drawing away, but his force
increased. She closed her eyes; she felt his kiss upon her hair, her
cheek, the corner of her unstirring mouth.
And she thought that it was his right--if she turned from him she would
seem strangely refusing. An American, she knew, kissed his fiancee
freely.
But it was a tremendous freedom. . . .
It would have been--knightlier, she thought quiveringly, if he had not
done that, if he had revealed a more respectful homage.
But these were American ways . . . and he was a man and he loved her and
he wanted to feel that she belonged to him utterly. It was comfort for
her troubled spirit.
But when she felt his hand trying to turn up her chin, so that her young
lips might meet his, she slipped decidedly away.
"No? All right." Johnny gave a short, uncertain laugh. "All right,
little girl, I'll be good."
She had risen to her feet and he rose now and his voice changed to a
heartier note.
"Ready for the going? We'll have to make a start, I suppose. I don't see
any rescue expeditions starting this way. . . . Lordy, I'm a starved
man! I could eat the side of a house."
"I could eat the other side," said Maria Angelina smiling shakily.
Johnny put out the fire, ground out its embers beneath his heels, and
started down upon the trail that they had come. Closely after him came
the girl. The moonlight flooded the mountain side with vague, uncertain
light and the descent was a difficult and dangerous matter.
They tripped over rocks; they stumbled through underbrush. The moon was
their only clue to direction and the moon seemed to be slipping past the
peaks at a confusing speed.
"We're going down anyway," said Johnny Byrd grimly.
Sharply they were stopped. The ledge on which they found themselves
ended abruptly, like a bluff, and peering over its edge they looked down
into the dark tops of tall fir trees.
No more descent there.
In disgusted rage Johnny strode up and down the length of that ledge
but it was a clear shelf, with no way out from it except the way that
they had come. There was no approach from below.
"And some fools go in for mountaineering!" said Johnny Byrd bitterly.
It was the last gust of humor in him. He was furious--and he grew more
furious unrestrainedly. He exploded in muttered oaths and exclamations.
In her troubled little heart Maria Angelina felt for him. She knew that
he was tired and hungry, and men, when they were hungry, were very
unhappy. But she was tired and hungry, too--and her reputation, the
reputation that was her very existence, was in jeopardy.
Up they scrambled, from the ledge again, and once back upon the mountain
side, they circled farther back around the mountain before starting down
again.
Blindly Maria Angelina followed Johnny's lead. She tripped over roots;
she caught upon brambles. With her last shreds of vanity she was
grateful that he could not see her streaming hair and scratched and
dirty face.
It had grown darker and darker and the moon had vanished utterly behind
the clouds. The air was damp and cold. A wind was rising.
Suddenly their feet struck into the faint line of a path. Eagerly they
followed. It wound on back across the mountain side and rounded a wooded
spur.
"It will lead somewhere, anyway," declared Johnny, hope returning good
nature to his tone.
"But it is not the right way," Maria Angelina combated in distress.
"See, we are not going down any more. Oh, let us keep on going down
until we find that river below, and then we can return to the Lodge----"
"You come on," said Johnny firmly, striding on ahead, and unhappily she
followed, her anxiety warring with her weariness.
What time could it be? She felt as if it were the middle of the night.
The picnickers must all be home by now, looking for her, organizing
searching parties perhaps. . . . What must they think? What must they
not think?
She saw her Cousin Jane's distress. . . . Ruth's disgust. Would they
imagine that she had eloped?
She knew but little of American conventions and that little told her
that the ceremonies were easy of accomplishment. Young people were
always eloping. . . . The consent of guardians was not necessary. . . .
How terrible, if they imagined her gone on a romantic elopement, to have
her return, mud plastered, after a night with a young man upon the
mountain!
A night upon the mountain with a young man . . . a young man in love
with her.
Scandal. . . . Unbelievable shame.
She felt as if they were in the grip of a nightmare.
They must hurry, hurry. Somehow they must gain upon that night, they
must return to the Lodge before it was too late.
A cold sprinkle of rain fell, plastering her middy shiveringly to her,
but the rain soon stopped and the path grew clearer and more and more
defined as they stumbled along it to its end.
It was not a house they found. It was not really a cabin. It was just
three walls of logs built against the rocky face of the mountain.
But it was a hut, a shelter, with a door that swung open on leather
hinges at Johnny's tug.
He called, then peered within. Finally he struck a match and stared
about and Maria Angelina came to look, too. The place was so tiny that a
bed of boughs and blankets on the floor covered most of the space, save
for a few boxes. Outside the doors were the ashes of old fires.
"Well, it's _something_," said Johnny in glum resignation. "Hasn't the
fool that built it any food?"
Vigorously he poked about the tiny place, then emerged to report in
disgust, "Not a darn thing. . . . Oh, well, it's a shelter, anyway."
The incredible idea pierced Maria Angelina that he was going to pause
there for rest.
"Oh, we must go on," she insisted.
"Go on?" He turned to stare in indignation at the girl who had gasped
that at him. "Go on? In this dark? When it's going to rain? Why, you're
nearly all in, now."
"Indeed--indeed, I am not all in," she protested. "It is not necessary
for me to rest--not necessary at all. I am quite strong. I want only to
go on--to go to the Lodge----"
"We'll never make the Lodge to-night. We'll have to camp here the best
way we can."
It seemed to her that she could hardly have heard him. It was so
incredible a thought--so overwhelming----
A queer gulping sound came from her throat. Her words fell without her
volition, like spent breaths.
"But that is wrong. We cannot stay. We cannot stay like that----"
"Why can't we stay?"
"It--it is impossible! The scandal----"
Angrily he wheeled about. "Scandal?" he said sharply. "What the hell
scandal is there?"
His indignation at the words could not dispel her terror. But it was
something to have him so hot her champion.
"You know, they will all talk----"
"Let 'em talk," he said curtly. "We can't help it."
She put a hand to her throat as if to still that throbbing pulse there
that impeded speech.
"I know we cannot help it. But we cannot--not give them so much to talk
of. We can be trying to return----"
"Don't be a goose, Ri-Ri!" he broke in sharply.
He was a man. He did not understand the full agony. . . . Desperately
Maria Angelina wondered as to her reception. She had no parallel in
Italian society. The thing could not happen in Italian society. A girl,
a well born girl, rambling the woods all night with her fiance!
She wondered if the announcement of their engagement instantly upon
their return would appease the world. Of course, there would always be
the story. As long as she lived there would be the story. But as
Johnny's wife, triumphant, assured, she could afford to ignore it.
At her stillness Johnny had looked about, and something infinitely
drooping and forlorn in the vague outlines of her small figure made its
softening appeal.
His voice changed. "Don't you worry, little girl," he told her
soothingly, "I'll take care of you."
Her heart leaped.
"Ah, yes," she said faintly, "but what can we do? Had it better be at
once----?"
"At once----?"
"The marriage," she choked out.
"Marriage?" Even in the dimness she saw that he raised his head, his
chin stiffening, his whole outline hardening.
"What are you talking about?" he said very roughly.
"About--about our marriage," she repeated trembling, and then, at
something in his hardness and his grimness, "Why, what did you mean----?
Must it not be soon?"
A dreadful, deliberate silence engulfed her words.
Coldly Johnny's slow voice broke it.
"Who said anything about marriage?" defiantly he demanded. "I never
asked you to marry me."