Mamie, waiting just inside the door as Ariel and Eugene entered, gave
the visitor a pale greeting, and, a moment later, hearing the wheels of
the brougham crunch the gravel of the carriage-drive, hurried away,
down the broad hall, and disappeared. Ariel dropped her parasol upon a
marble-topped table near the door, and, removing her gloves, drifted
into a room at the left, where a grand piano found shelter beneath
crimson plush. After a moment of contemplation, she pushed back the
coverlet, and, seating herself upon the plush-covered piano-stool (to
match), let her fingers run up and down the key-board once and fall
listlessly in her lap, as she gazed with deep interest at three
life-sized colored photographs (in carved gilt frames) upon the wall
she was facing: Judge Pike, Mamie, and Mrs. Pike with her rubies.
"Please don't stop playing, Miss Tabor," said a voice behind her. She
had not observed that Eugene had followed her into the room.
"Very well, if you like," she answered, looking up to smile absently at
him. And she began to play a rakish little air which, composed by some
rattle-brain at a cafe table, had lately skipped out of the Moulin
Rouge to disport itself over Paris. She played it slowly, in the minor,
with elfish pathos; while he leaned upon the piano, his eyes fixed upon
her fingers, which bore few rings, none, he observed with an
unreasonable pleasure, upon the third finger of the left hand.
"It's one of those simpler Grieg things, isn't it?" he said, sighing
gently. "I care for Grieg."
"Would you mind its being Chaminade?" she returned, dropping her eyes
to cloak the sin.
"Ah no; I recognize it now," replied Eugene. "He appeals to me even
more than Grieg."
At this she glanced quickly up at him, but more quickly down again, and
hastened the time emphatically, swinging the little air into the major.
"Do you play the 'Pilgrim's Chorus'?"
She shook her head.
"Vous name pas Wagner?" inquired Eugene, leaning toward her.
"Oh yes," she answered, bending her head far over, so that her face was
concealed from him, except the chin, which, he saw with a thrill of
inexplicable emotion, was trembling slightly. There were some small
white flowers upon her hat, and these shook too.
She stopped playing abruptly, rose from the stool and crossed the room
to a large mahogany chair, upholstered in red velvet and of hybrid
construction, possessing both rockers and legs. She had moved in a way
which prevented him from seeing her face, but he was certain of her
agitation, and strangely glad, while curious, tremulous half-thoughts,
edged with prophecy, bubbled to the surface of his consciousness.
When she turned to him, he was surprised to see that she looked
astonishingly happy, almost as if she had been struggling with joy,
instead of pain.
"This chair," she said, sinking into it, "makes me feel at home."
Naturally he could not understand.
"Because," she explained, "I once thought I was going to live in it.
It has been reupholstered, but I should know it if I met in anywhere in
the world!"
"How very odd!" exclaimed Eugene, staring.
"I settled here in pioneer days," she went on, tapping the arms lightly
with her finger-tips. "It was the last dance I went to in Canaan."
"I fear the town was very provincial at that time," he returned, having
completely forgotten the occasion she mentioned, therefore wishing to
shift the subject. "I fear you may still find it so. There is not
much here that one is in sympathy with, intellectually--few people
really of the world."
"Few people, I suppose you mean," she said, softly, with a look that
went deep enough into his eyes, "few people who really understand one?"
Eugene had seated himself on the sill of an open window close by.
"There has been," he answered, with the ghost of a sigh, "no one."
She turned her head slightly away from him, apparently occupied with a
loose thread in her sleeve. There were no loose threads; it was an old
habit of hers which she retained. "I suppose," she murmured, in a
voice as low as his had been, "that a man of your sort might find
Canaan rather lonely and sad."
"It HAS been!" Whereupon she made him a laughing little bow.
"You are sure you complain of Canaan?"
"Yes!" he exclaimed. "You don't know what it is to live here--"
"I think I do. I lived here seventeen years."
"Oh yes," he began to object, "as a child, but--"
"Have you any recollection," she interrupted, "of the day before your
brother ran away? Of coming home for vacation--I think it was your
first year in college--and intervening between your brother and me in a
snow-fight?"
For a moment he was genuinely perplexed; then his face cleared.
"Certainly," he said: "I found him bullying you and gave him a good
punishing for it."
"Is that all you remember?"
"Yes," he replied, honestly. "Wasn't that all?"
"Quite!" she smiled, her eyes half closed. "Except that I went home
immediately afterward."
"Naturally," said Eugene. "My step-brother wasn't very much chevalier
sans peur et sans reproche! Ah, I should like to polish up my French a
little. Would you mind my asking you to read a bit with me, some
little thing of Daudet's if you care for him, in the original? An
hour, now and then, perhaps--"
Mamie appeared in the doorway and Eugene rose swiftly. "I have been
trying to persuade Miss Tabor," he explained, with something too much
of laughter, "to play again. You heard that little thing of
Chaminade's--"
Mamie did not appear to hear him; she entered breathlessly, and there
was no color in her cheeks. "Ariel," she exclaimed, "I don't want you
to think I'm a tale-bearer--"
"Oh, my dear!" Ariel said, with a gesture of deprecation.
"No," Miss Pike went on, all in one breath, "but I'm afraid you will
think it, because papa knows and he wants to see you."
"What is it that he knows?"
"That you were walking with Joseph Louden!" (This was as if she had
said, "That you poisoned your mother.") "I DIDN'T tell him, but when
we saw you with him I was troubled, and asked Eugene what I'd better
do, because Eugene always knows what is best." (Mr. Bantry's
expression, despite this tribute, was not happy.) "And he advised me
to tell mamma about it and leave it in her hands. But she always tells
papa everything--"
"Certainly; that is understood," said Ariel, slowly, turning to smile
at Eugene.
"And she told him this right away," Mamie finished.
"Why shouldn't she, if it is of the slightest interest to him?"
The daughter of the house exhibited signs of consternation. "He wants
to see you," she repeated, falteringly. "He's in the library."
Having thus discharged her errand, she hastened to the front-door,
which had been left open, and out to the steps, evidently with the
intention of removing herself as soon and as far as possible from the
vicinity of the library.
Eugene, visibly perturbed, followed her to the doorway of the room, and
paused.
"Do you know the way?" he inquired, with a note of solemnity.
"Where?" Ariel had not risen.
"To the library."
"Of course," she said, beaming upon him. "I was about to ask you if
you wouldn't speak to the Judge for me. This is such a comfortable old
friend, this chair."
"Speak to him for you?" repeated the non-plussed Eugene.
She nodded cheerfully. "If I may trouble you. Tell him, certainly, I
shall be glad to see him."
He threw a piteous glance after Mamie, who was now, as he saw, through
the open door, out upon the lawn and beyond easy hailing distance.
When he turned again to look at Ariel he discovered that she had
shifted the position of her chair slightly, and was gazing out of the
window with every appearance of cheerful meditation. She assumed so
unmistakably that he had of course gone on her mission that, dismayed
and his soul quaking, he could find neither an alternative nor words to
explain to this dazzling lady that not he nor any other could bear such
a message to Martin Pike.
Eugene went. There was nothing else to do; and he wished with every
step that the distance to the portals of the library might have been
greater.
In whatever guise he delivered the summons, it was perfectly
efficacious. A door slammed, a heavy and rapid tread was heard in the
hall, and Ariel, without otherwise moving, turned her head and offered
a brilliant smile of greeting.
"It was good of you," she said, as the doorway filled with red,
imperial wrath, "to wish to have a little chat with me. I'm anxious,
of course, to go over my affairs with you, and last night, after my
journey, I was too tired. But now we might begin; not in detail, of
course, just yet. That will do for later, when I've learned more about
business."
The great one had stopped on the threshold.
"Madam," he began, coldly, "when I say my library, I mean my--"
"Oh yes," she interrupted, with amiable weariness. "I know. You mean
you keep all the papers and books of the estate in there, but I think
we'd better put them off for a few days--"
"I'm not talking about the estate!" he exclaimed. "What I want to talk
to you about is being seen with Joseph Louden!"
"Yes," she nodded, brightly. "That's along the line we must take up
first."
"Yes, it is!" He hurled his bull-bass at her. "You knew everything
about him and his standing in this community! I know you did, because
Mrs. Pike told me you asked all about him from Mamie after you came
last night, and, see here, don't you--"
"Oh, but I knew before that," she laughed. "I had a correspondent in
Canaan, one who has always taken a great interest in Mr. Louden. I
asked Miss Pike only to get her own point of view."
"I want to tell you, madam," he shouted, coming toward her, "that no
member of my household--"
"That's another point we must take up to-day. I'm glad you remind me of
it," she said, thoughtfully, yet with so magically compelling an
intonation that he stopped his shouting in the middle of a word;
stopped with an apoplectic splutter. "We must arrange to put the old
house in order at once."
"We'll arrange nothing of the sort," he responded, after a moment of
angry silence. "You're going to stay right here."
"Ah, I know your hospitality," she bowed, graciously. "But of course I
must not tax it too far. And about Mr. Louden? As I said, I want to
speak to you about him."
"Yes," he intervened, harshly. "So do I, and I'm going to do it quick!
You'll find--"
Again she mysteriously baffled him. "He's a dear old friend of mine,
you know, and I have made up my mind that we both need his help, you
and I."
"What!"
"Yes," she continued, calmly, "in a business way I mean. I know you
have great interests in a hundred directions, all more important than
mine; it isn't fair that you should bear the whole burden of my
affairs, and I think it will be best to retain Mr. Louden as my man of
business. He could take all the cares of the estate off your
shoulders."
Martin Pike spoke no word, but he looked at her strangely; and she
watched him with sudden keenness, leaning forward in her chair, her
gaze alert but quiet, fixed on the dilating pupils of his eyes. He
seemed to become dizzy, and the choleric scarlet which had overspread
his broad face and big neck faded splotchily.
Still keeping her eyes upon him, she went on: "I haven't asked him yet,
and so I don't know whether or not he'll consent, but I think it
possible that he may come to see me this afternoon, and if he does we
can propose it to him together and go over things a little."
Judge Pike recovered his voice. "He'll get a warm welcome," he
promised, huskily, "if he sets foot on my premises!"
"You mean you prefer I shouldn't receive him here?" She nodded
pleasantly. "Then certainly I shall not. Such things are much better
for offices; you are quite right."
"You'll not see him at all!"
"Ah, Judge Pike," she lifted her hand with gentle deprecation, "don't
you understand that we can't quite arrange that? You see, Mr. Louden
is even an older friend of mine than you are, and so I must trust his
advice about such things more than yours. Of course, if he too should
think it better for me not to see him--"
The Judge advanced toward her. "I'm tired of this," he began, in a
loud voice. "I'm--"
She moved as if to rise, but he had come very close, leaning above her,
one arm out-stretched and at the end of it a heavy forefinger which he
was shaking at her, so that it was difficult to get out of her chair
without pushing him away--a feat apparently impossible. Ariel Tabor,
in rising, placed her hand upon his out-stretched arm, quite as if he
had offered it to assist her; he fell back a step in complete
astonishment; she rose quickly, and released his arm.
"Thank you," she said, beamingly. "It's quite all my fault that you're
tired. I've been thoughtless to keep you so long, and you have been
standing, too!" She swept lightly and quickly to the door, where she
paused, gathering her skirts. "I shall not detain you another instant!
And if Mr. Louden comes, this afternoon, I'll remember. I'll not let
him come in, of course. It will be perhaps pleasanter to talk over my
proposition as we walk!"
There was a very faint, spicy odor like wild roses and cinnamon left in
the room where Martin Pike stood alone, staring whitely at the open
doorway.