Unremarked by any of these, Marbridge stepped out upon the terrace. He
was light of foot like most men of his type; his voice, unctuous with
the Southern drawl which he affected together with quaint Southern
twists of speech, was the first warning they had of his approach.
"This is surely one powerful' fine night. I don't wonder you-all like it
better out here than--" He checked suddenly in both words and action:
the women had started apart. "Why!" he added slowly, as though
perplexed--"I hope I don't intrude...."
His quick dark eyes shifted rapidly from Helena to Venetia, to Matthias,
and again back to the women, during a momentary lull of embarrassment.
Then Helena said quietly:
"Not in the least. But this makes you the first to learn the news, Mr.
Marbridge. Venetia and my nephew are engaged to be married."
"Engaged--!" The man's chin slacked: his eyes widened; a cigarette fell
unheeded from his fingers. He smiled a trace stupidly.
"Why!"--he recollected himself almost instantaneously--"this certainly
is some surprise, but I do congratulate you--both!"
With a stride he seized the hand Venetia could not refuse him, and
pressed it warmly. "You're the luckiest man I ever knew!" he declared,
turning to clasp hands with Matthias.
Instinctively the latter met his powerful grasp with one as forceful.
"Thank you," he said, smiling gravely into the other's eyes. Under his
firm but pleasant regard they wavered and fell, then steadied with a
glint of temper. Their hands fell apart. Marbridge stepped back.
"Perhaps I don't know you well enough, Mr. Matthias, to congratulate
Miss Tankerville as heartily as I do you; but I'm persuaded she's not
liable to make any serious mistake."
Matthias nodded thoughtfully. "I understand: your intentions are
excellent. I'm sure we both thank you. Venetia--?"
"Mr. Marbridge is very amiable," said the girl, a hint of mirth
modifying her composure. "But I'm afraid, Helena," she added
quickly--"if you don't mind--I think I'll go to my room."
To Marbridge she gave a quaint little bow that was half an old-fashioned
courtesy, robbed of formality by her spirited smile: to Matthias her
hand and a gentle "Good night!" Taking the arm of her sister-in-law, she
drew her toward the house.
Watching them until they disappeared, Marbridge chuckled quietly.
"Took my breath away!" he declared. "Why, I never suspected for an
instant!..." He dropped heavily but with characteristic grace into a
chair. "It takes you quiet boys to get away with the girls like
Venetia--all fire and dash!"
"Yes," said Matthias reflectively: "it does--doesn't it? Have another
cigarette?" He offered his case. "You dropped yours...."
"Thanks.... She's a thoroughbred, all right. I reckon if I wasn't a mite
too middle-aged, maybe I might've set you a pace that you'd've found
lively going."
"Well, let's be thankful nothing of that sort happened, at all events."
Marbridge looked up over his match and lifted his brows; but if in
reality a retort trembled on his lips, he thought better of it; and
before either spoke again, Tankerville was on the terrace, brandishing
pudgy arms.
"Hey, you!" he called fretfully. "Don't you know you're holding us all
up? Come on in...."
But the game held less attraction for Matthias than ever, and after
another and final failure to establish himself in Tankerville's good
graces, he pocketed his losses, relinquished his place to Marbridge
and--with even less inclination for bed than for cards--took himself
again out into the open night. But now the terrace was all too small to
contain his spirits. The need of action--movement, freedom, space--was
strong upon him. Striding away down the drive that wound like a broad
band of whitewash through its dark bordering lawns and darker coppices,
he found even the grounds of Tanglewood too constricted for the
extravagant energy that animated him; and took to the broad highways,
with all Long Island free to his tireless spirit.
For several hours or more he trudged valiantly hither and yon, with
little or no notion of whither he went--with his head in the stars and
his feet in the dust and kicking up a famous smother of it--and in that
time was wittingly as near to happiness as he had ever been in all his
days. The faculty of coherent thought had passed from him utterly, but
it passed unmourned: Venetia was his! This thought alone sufficed him.
He had neither time nor inclination to entertain those doubts, those
questionings and apprehensions which had beset him in saner humour
theretofore. It mattered nothing now that he was poor and she wealthy,
nothing that all his efforts to make something of himself had thus far
proved vain and fruitless. She loved him: it was enough....
He came to his senses, eventually, long enough to recognize anew the
grounds of Tanglewood. Of a sudden his impetuosity had run out; remained
the pleasant languor of a healthy body thoroughly exercised, the peace
of a mind vexed by no insatiable desire. And still he was not sleepy.
Purposefully he retarded his footsteps, approaching the house with
stealth, eager to escape observation and gain his room, unhindered.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to submit to the ordeal of
congratulations....
It was with a shock of amazement that he saw the house all quiet and
dark. He pulled out his watch and studied its face by moonlight, finding
its evidence difficult to credit: twenty minutes past one in the
morning!
Gingerly, keeping to the grass in order that the gravel of the drive
might not, by its crunching underfoot, betray him or alarm some wakeful
member of the house-hold, he approached the front door, wondering if he
were locked out, and--not without amusement at his self-contrived
predicament--what to do if he were. To his relief one-half of the double
door stood a foot or two ajar--thanks, he had no doubt, to the
thoughtfulness of Helena or Tankerville. Blessing both on general
principles, he entered, shut the door and softly shot the bolt; turned
in deep obscurity to grope his way to the foot of the stairs; but paused
with a hand on the newel-post and his breath catching in his throat.
In the hallway above a night-light was burning dim and low but
sufficiently diffused to show him the figure of a woman silently
descending the stairway. When he first became aware of her she was
indeed almost within arm's length: a shape of shadow scarce three shades
lighter than the encompassing gloom.... Venetia, possibly, having waited
and watched for him from her windows overlooking the drive, stealing
down to bid him that good night they had perforce foregone in the
presence of Helena and Marbridge....
That wild and extravagant surmise had no more than entered his mind when
he found the woman in his arms. She gave herself into them with a
gesture of abandonment, with a little sigh that escaped in broken
measure, murmurous and fond. An arm that, lifting, flashed naked to the
shoulder as the sleeve of her negligee fell back, encircled his neck and
drew down his head to hers. And her mouth fastened to his with clinging
lips....
Half stunned by receipt of that mad caress, one thought shot like light
through the turmoil of his senses: this was never Venetia!
With an effort he straightened his neck against the pressure of the
woman's arm. She strove to overcome his resistance, wooing him in
accents hushed, shaking with passion:
"_Vincent ... sweetheart!..._"
He interrupted hastily: "I beg pardon!" The inadequacy of that stilted
form, disgusting him, he added: "I am John Matthias."
Immediately the woman released him and, with a gasp, sank back against
the newel-post. Her breath came gustily, with a sound like smothered
sobbing. Pitifully he divined her shame and terror; and though he knew
her very well, beyond mistake, he said evenly: "Don't worry--there isn't
any light."