Orde, in spite of his activities, managed to see Carroll Bishop twice
during the ensuing week.
On his return home late Monday afternoon, Grandma Orde informed him
with a shrewd twinkle that she wanted him surely at home the following
evening.
“I've asked in three or four of the young people for a candy pull,” said
she.
“Who, mother?” asked Orde.
“Your crowd. The Smiths, Collinses, Jane Hubbard, and Her,” said Grandma
Orde, which probably went to show that she had in the meantime been
making inquiries, and was satisfied with them.
“Do you suppose they'll care for candy pulling?” hazarded Orde a little
doubtfully.
“You mean, will she?” countered Grandma. “Well, I hope for both your
sakes she is not beyond a little old-fashioned fun.”
So it proved. The young people straggled in at an early hour after
supper--every one had supper in those days. Carroll Bishop and Jane
arrived nearly the last. Orde stepped into the hall to help them with
their wraps. He was surprised as he approached Miss Bishop to lift her
cloak from her shoulders, to find that the top of her daintily poised
head, with its soft, fine hair, came well below the level of his eyes.
Somehow her poise, her slender grace of movement and of attitude, had
lent her the impression of a stature she did not possess. To-night her
eyes, while fathomless as ever, shone quietly in anticipation.
“Do you know,” she told Orde delightedly, “I have never been to a real
candy pull in my life. It was so good of your mother to ask me. What a
dear she looks to-night. And is that your father? I'm going to speak to
him.”
She turned through the narrow door into the lighted, low-ceilinged
parlour where the company were chatting busily. Orde mechanically
followed her. He was arrested by the sound of Jane Hubbard's slow
good-humoured voice behind him.
“Now, Jack,” she drawled, “I agree with you perfectly; but that is NO
reason why I should be neglected entirely. Come and hang up my coat.”
Full of remorse, Orde turned. Jane Hubbard stood accusingly in the
middle of the hall, her plain, shrewd, good-humoured face smiling
faintly. Orde met her frank wide eyes with some embarrassment.
“Here it is,” said Jane, holding out the coat. “I don't much care
whether you hang it up or not. I just wanted to call you back to wish
you luck.” Her slow smile widened, and her gray eyes met his still more
knowingly.
Orde seized the coat and her hand at the same time.
“Jane, you're a trump,” said he. “No wonder you're the most popular girl
in town.”
“Of course I am, Jack,” she agreed indolently. She entered the parlour.
The candy pulling was a success. Of course everybody got burned a
little and spattered a good deal; but that was to be expected. After
the product had been broken and been piled on dishes, all trooped to the
informal “back sitting-room,” where an open fire invited to stories and
games of the quieter sort. Some of the girls sat in chairs, though most
joined the men on the hearth.
Carroll Bishop, however, seemed possessed of a spirit of restlessness.
The place seemed to interest her. She wandered here and there in the
room, looking now at the walnut-framed photograph of Uncle Jim Orde,
now at the great pink conch shells either side the door, now at the
marble-topped table with its square paper-weight of polished agate and
its glass “bell,” beneath which stood a very life-like robin. This “back
sitting-room” contained little in the way of ornament. It was filled, on
the contrary, with old comfortable chairs, and worn calf-backed books.
The girl peered at the titles of these; but the gas-jets had been turned
low in favour of the firelight, and she had to give over the effort
to identify the volumes. Once she wandered close to Grandma Orde's
cushioned wooden rocker, and passed her hand lightly over the old lady's
shoulder.
“Do you mind if I look at things?” she asked. “It's so dear and sweet
and old and different from our New York homes.”
“Look all you want to, dearie,” said Grandma Orde.
After a moment she passed into the dining-room. Here Orde found her, her
hands linked in front of her.
“Oh, it is so quaint and delightful,” she exhaled slowly. “This dear,
dear old house with its low ceilings and its queer haphazard lines, and
its deep windows, and its old pictures, and queer unexpected things that
take your breath away.”
“It is one of the oldest houses in town,” said Orde, “and I suppose it
is picturesque. But, you see, I was brought up here, so I'm used to it.”
“Wait until you leave it,” said she prophetically, “and live away from
it. Then all these things will come back to you to make your heart ache
for them.”
They rambled about together, Orde's enthusiasm gradually kindling at the
flame of her own. He showed her the marvellous and painstaking pencil
sketch of Napoleon looking out over a maltese-cross sunset done by Aunt
Martha at the age of ten. It hung framed in the upper hall.
“It has always been there, ever since I can remember,” said Orde, “and
it has seemed to belong there. I've never thought of it as good or bad,
just as belonging.”
“I know,” she nodded.
In this spirit also they viewed the plaster statue of Washington in the
lower hall, and the Roger's group in the parlour. The glass cabinet of
“curiosities” interested her greatly--the carved ivory chessmen, the
dried sea-weeds, the stone from Sugar Loaf Rock, the bit from the wreck
of the NORTH STAR, the gold and silver shells, the glittering geodes and
pyrites, the sandal-wood fan, and all the hundred and one knick-knacks
it was then the custom to collect under glass. They even ventured
part way up the creaky attic stairs, but it was too dark to enter that
mysterious region.
“I hear the drip of water,” she whispered, her finger on her lips.
“It's the tank,” said Orde.
“And has it a Dark Place behind it?” she begged.
“That's just what it has,” said he.
“And--tell me--are there real hair trunks with brass knobs on 'em?”
“Yes, mother has two or three.”
“O-o-h!” she breathed softly. “Don't tell me what's in them. I want to
believe in brocades and sashes. Do you know,” she looked at him soberly,
“I never had any dark places behind the tank, nor mysterious trunks,
when I was a child.”
“You might begin now,” suggested Orde.
“Do you mean to insinuate I haven't grown up?” she mocked. “Thank you!
Look OUT!” she cried suddenly, “the Boojum will catch us,” and picking
up her skirts she fairly flew down the narrow stairs. Orde could hear
the light swish of her draperies down the hall, and then the pat of her
feet on the stair carpet of the lower flight.
He followed rather dreamily. A glance into the sitting-room showed the
group gathered close around the fire listening to Lem Collin's attempt
at a ghost story. She was not there. He found her, then, in the parlour.
She was kneeling on the floor before the glass cabinet of curiosities,
and she had quite flattened her little nose against the pane. At his
exclamation she looked up with a laugh.
“This is the proper altitude from which to view a cabinet of
curiosities,” said she, “and something tells me you ought to flatten
your nose, too.” She held out both hands to be helped up. “Oh, WHAT a
house for a child!” she cried.
After the company had gone, Orde stood long by the front gate looking up
into the infinite spaces. Somehow, and vaguely, he felt the night to be
akin to her elusive spirit. Farther and farther his soul penetrated
into its depths; and yet other depths lay beyond, other mysteries, other
unguessed realms. And yet its beauty was the simplicity of space and
dark and the stars.
The next time he saw her was at her own house--or rather the house of
the friend she visited. Orde went to call on Friday evening and was
lucky enough to find the girls home and alone. After a decent interval
Jane made an excuse and went out. They talked on a great variety of
subjects, and with a considerable approach toward intimacy. Not until
nearly time to go did Orde stumble upon the vital point of the evening.
He had said something about a plan for the week following.
“But you forget that by that time I shall be gone,” said she.
“Gone!” he echoed blankly. “Where?”
“Home,” said she. “Don't you remember I am to go Sunday morning?”
“I thought you were going to stay a month.”
“I was, but I--certain things came up that made it necessary for me to
leave sooner.”
“I--I'm sorry you're going,” stammered Orde.
“So am I,” said she. “I've had a very nice time here.”
“Then I won't see you again,” said Orde, still groping for realisation.
“I must go to Monrovia to-morrow. But I'll be down to see you off.”
“Do come,” said she.
“It's not to be for good?” he expostulated. “You'll be coming back.”
She threw her hands palm out, with a pretty gesture of ignorance.
“That is in the lap of the gods,” said she.
“Will you write me occasionally?” he begged.
“As to that--” she began--“I'm a very poor correspondent.”
“But won't you write?” he insisted.
“I do not make it a custom to write to young men.”
“Oh!” he cried, believing himself enlightened. “Will you answer if I
write you?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether there is a reply to make.”
“But may I write you?”
“I suppose I couldn't very well prevent you, if you were sure to put on
a three-cent stamp.”
“Do you want me to?” persisted Orde.
She began gently to laugh, quite to herself, as though enjoying a joke
entirely within her own personal privilege.
“You are so direct and persistent and boy-like,” said she presently.
“Now if you'll be very good, and not whisper to the other little pupils,
I'll tell you how they do such things usually.” She sat up straight from
the depths of her chair, her white, delicately tapering forearms resting
lightly on her knees. “Young men desiring to communicate with young
ladies do not ask them bluntly. They make some excuse, like sending
a book, a magazine, a marked newspaper, or even a bit of desired
information. At the same time, they send notes informing the girl of the
fact. The girl is naturally expected to acknowledge the politeness. If
she wishes the correspondence to continue, she asks a question, or in
some other way leaves an opening. Do you see?”
“Yes, I see,” said Orde, slightly crestfallen. “But that's a long time
to wait. I like to feel settled about a thing. I wanted to know.”
She dropped back against the cushioned slant of her easy chair, and
laughed again.
“And so you just up and asked!” she teased.
“I beg your pardon if I was rude,” he said humbly.
The laughter died slowly from her eyes.
“Don't,” she said. “It would be asking pardon for being yourself. You
wanted to know: so you asked. And I'm going to answer. I shall be very
glad to correspond with you and tell you about my sort of things, if
you happen to be interested in them. I warn you: they are not very
exciting.”
“They are yours,” said he.
She half rose to bow in mock graciousness, caught herself, and sank
back.
“No, I won't,” she said, more than half to herself. She sat brooding
for a moment; then suddenly her mood changed. She sprang up, shook her
skirts free, and seated herself at the piano. To Orde, who had also
arisen, she made a quaint grimace over her shoulder.
“Admire your handiwork!” she told him. “You are rapidly bringing me
to 'tell the truth and shame the devil.' Oh, he must be dying of
mortification this evening!” She struck a great crashing chord, holding
the keys while the strings reverberated and echoed down slowly into
silence again. “It isn't fair,” she went on, “for you big simple men
to disarm us. I don't care! I have my private opinion of such brute
strength. JE ME MOQUE!”
She wrinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes. Then ruthlessly she drowned
his reply in a torrent of music. Like mad she played, rocking her
slender body back and forth along the key-board; holding rigid her
fingers, her hands, and the muscles of her arms. The bass notes roared
like the rumbling of thunder; the treble flashed like the dart of
lightnings. Abruptly she muted the instrument. Silence fell as something
that had been pent and suddenly released. She arose from the piano stool
quite naturally, both hands at her hair.
“Aren't Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard dear old people?” said she.
“What is your address in New York?” demanded Orde. She sank into a chair
nearby with a pretty uplifted gesture of despair.
“I surrender!” she cried, and then she laughed until the tears started
from her eyes and she had to brush them away with what seemed to Orde an
absurd affair to call a handkerchief. “Oh, you are delicious!” she said
at last. “Well, listen. I live at 12 West Ninth Street. Can you remember
that?” Orde nodded. “And now any other questions the prisoner can reply
to without incriminating herself, she is willing to answer.” She folded
her hands demurely in her lap.
Two days later Orde saw the train carry her away. He watched the rear
car disappear between the downward slopes of two hills, and then finally
the last smoke from the locomotive dissipate in the clear blue.
Declining Jane's kindly meant offer of a lift, he walked back to town.