A few days later Ethan walked into the office of the law firm in
Providence, hung his hat on a hook in the closet and blandly inquired
for his desk. The members of the firm discussed it later in the privacy
of the inner office.
“Looks as though he might be in earnest, anyway,” suggested the senior.
“Apparently not afraid of work, eh?”
“Something funny about it,” replied the junior, who was a bit of a
pessimist. “It isn’t like a fellow of his sort to give up his summer
and buckle down to reading law in July.” He shook his head with
misgivings. “It won’t last, mark my word.”
But it did. Business was slack throughout the hot weather and Ethan
had plenty of time for reading; and he made the most of it. Several
letters came from Vincent reminding him of his promise and urging
him to come down to Stillhaven for a while. But always Ethan pleaded
press of duties, until Vincent, whose own law shingle had been hanging
out for a year and who had yet to find business pressing, felt more
convinced than ever that his friend had, to use his own expression,
“come a cropper somehow!”
[Illustration]
In September Vincent ran down and spent Sunday. Ethan didn’t press him
to come again, for his conversation was not of a sort calculated to
reconcile a disappointed lover to his lot. The Devereuxs were still at
Riverdell, but were returning to their Boston apartments the last of
the month.
“She hasn’t forgiven you for not calling,” warned Vincent, “and you’ll
have to eat dirt when you do see her, old chap.”
Ethan expressed entire willingness to grovel, but flatly refused to
set a date for the proceedings. Vincent departed somewhat huffed, and
for some time there was a perceptible coolness between them. Ethan
regretted it, but he wasn’t ready yet to trust himself in the rôle of
Vincent’s friend.
His first vacation since he had gone to work came early in October.
Then a letter from a real estate agent who had the renting of his
property made a journey to Riverdell advisable. He left Providence,
with Farrell, in the car one Friday morning, intending to stay in
Riverdell over Saturday, and at two o’clock swung the machine in
through the big gate of The Larches. It had been a glorious brisk day,
they had made record time and Ethan’s spirits had been high. But now,
as they rumbled slowly up the circling driveway, old memories were
asserting themselves and buoyancy gave place to depression. The maples
were aflame in the afternoon sunlight, the Virginia creeper about the
porches was radiantly crimson, and along the gleaming white pergola
bunches of purple grapes were still aglow. But for all this The Larches
had a lonesome look. The windows on the lower floor were shuttered and
told eloquently of desertion.
[Illustration]
Ethan’s summons at the bell went unanswered for a time. Then footsteps
sounded on the marble tiles inside and the big door swung open,
revealing a comfortably stout, double-chinned woman who wiped her
damp, red hands on her blue calico apron.
“Why, Mr. Ethan!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, it’s I, Mrs. Billings,” he replied. “Farrell, take the car around
to the stable and I’ll have William open up for you.”
[Illustration]
He stepped into the dimly lighted hall, already filled with the chill
of approaching winter, and looked about him. Everything was apparently
the same in spite of its recent occupancy. The house had been rented
furnished, and plainly the Devereuxs had been satisfied to leave things
as they had found them. He took off his coat and tossed it on to the
big old-fashioned mahogany couch. Mrs. Billings, the housekeeper, was
still chattering volubly.
“If we’d known you was coming, sir, we’d have had the blinds open and
the fires lighted.”
“Never mind,” answered Ethan. “Have your husband build a fire in the
library and in my room. I shan’t be here beyond Sunday morning. You
can give me my meals in the library. I had a letter from Stearns a day
or so ago telling me that the Devereuxs had left and asking whether
I wanted to rent for the winter. I don’t believe I do. I don’t think
I shall rent again at all. Well how have you been, you and that
good-for-nothing husband of yours?”
“Nicely, sir, for myself, thank you. And Jonas, he isn’t one of the
complaining sort, sir, but he do have the rheumatism something awful in
wet weather. And how has your health been, Mr. Ethan?”
“I’ve been frightfully healthy, thank you. Where’s your husband?”
“I’ll call him, sir, at once. He’s out somewheres on the grounds, sir.
And I’ll have a fire lit in no time, sir. He’ll be very pleased to see
you, sir, will Jonas.” She stopped at the end of the hall and sank her
voice to a hoarse whisper. “I fear he’s getting old and failing, Mr.
Ethan,” she said despondently. “It――it’s his head sir.”
“Eh?”
“Yes, sir. Along in June it was, Mr. Ethan, or maybe early in the month
following, sir, that he came in quite excited like and wild, saying as
he had seen you with his own eyes over toward the grove there. Yes,
sir. ‘Jonas,’ says I, ‘it’s the sun.’ ‘No, ’taint,’ says he. ‘I saw him
with my own eyes,’ says he, ‘a-standing under the trees. And when I
looked again he was gone,’ he says. It gave me quite a shock, sir, as
you might say.”
[Illustration]
“Naturally. And since then you have observed no other symptoms?”
“No, sir, not particular, but he do seem a heap fonder of his victuals
than he used to, and I’ve heard tell as that’s a sure sign of a failing
intellect, Mr. Ethan.”
“In the case of your victuals, Mrs. Billings,” replied Ethan, “I’d say
it was an indication of wisdom.”
The housekeeper bridled and beamed.
“But, really,” continued Ethan, smiling, “I wouldn’t worry about
Billings. The fact is, I was down here for a day or so about the time
you speak of.”
“Here, sir? And you never came to see us, sir?”
“There――er――there were reasons, Mrs. Billings. And now how about that
fire? And send your husband out to unlock the carriage house, please.”
“Yes, sir, directly, sir. And Jonas really saw you, Mr. Ethan, same as
he said he did?”
“I think it more than likely, Mrs. Billings.”
“Well, that’s a great load off my mind, sir. Softening of the brain do
be so unfortunate!”
Later, just at dusk, Ethan emerged from the library on to the broad
cement-paved porch at the side of the house. Pausing to light a
cigarette, he passed down the stone steps to the pergola and traversed
its length. Fallen leaves rustled softly under his feet and the purple
clusters showed the effects of the frost. Once out of the arbor, his
steps led him almost unconsciously across the open lawn, russet now
and streaked with the long sombre shadows of the trees. He found
himself swayed by two desires; one to see the lotus pool again, the
other to avoid it. He went on through the twilight grove, filled with
a gentle――I had almost said pleasant――sadness. Underfoot the ground
was carpeted with the red leaves of the maples. Here and there a white
birch stood like a pale gold flame in the dying sunlight. The dark
green larches alone held themselves unchanged.
The pool was sadly different. Yellowing lily-pads floated upon the
surface, but no blossoms caught the slanting rays of the sun. Ethan sat
down under the willow, took his knees into his arms and puffed blue
smoke-wreaths into the amber light. Presently a shadow presence came
and sat beside him. The presence had violet eyes and red, red lips that
smiled wistfully. He didn’t turn his head, for he knew that if he did
he would find himself again alone. And presently they talked.
[Illustration]
“You were very cruel,” he said sadly.
“I didn’t mean to be,” she answered.
“No, I don’t think you did. You――you just didn’t think, I suppose. It
was all a bit of good fun with you. But――it played the deuce with me.”
“Did it?” she asked regretfully.
“But I’m not blaming you――now,” he went on. “I did at first. It seemed
needlessly cruel and heartless. But I understand now that it was all
my fault. You see, dear, I took it for granted, I thought, that
you――cared――the way I did. It was my silly conceit.”
He thought he heard a little sob beside him, but he resisted the
temptation to turn and look.
“If only there hadn’t been that kiss,” he continued dreamily.
“That――I’ve never quite understood that. Sometimes――I dare say it’s my
conceit again――but sometimes I can’t help thinking that you did care――a
little――just then! That is the hardest to forgive, dear,――and forget,
that kiss. If it wasn’t for the memory of that I think I could stand it
better. Why did you do it? _Why?_”
There was no answer save the sighing of a little breeze which crept
down the slope in a floating shower of dead leaves.
“Ah, but I want to know!” he insisted doggedly. “Was it just in fun?
Was it merely in pity? It couldn’t have been, I tell you! You never
kissed me like that for pity, dear! There was love in your eyes,
sweetheart; I saw it; fathoms deep in that purple twilight! Love, do
you hear? You can’t deny it, you can’t! And you trembled in my arms!
Why did you do it?” he asked sharply.
He turned impetuously,――and sighed. He was all alone. The presence had
fled.
[Illustration]
He tossed aside the dead cigarette in his hand and shivered. The breeze
was growing as the day passed, a chill October breeze laden with the
heavy, melancholy aroma of dying leaves. He arose and retraced his
steps to the house.