Esther and Ferguson walked across the open spaces of lawn and then
entered the woods. Ferguson had set the pace as slow, but he noticed
that she quickened it, faring along beside him with a light, swift step.
He also noticed that she was quiet, as she had been at dinner; as if she
was abstracted, not like herself.
He had seen a good deal of her lately and thought of her a good
deal—thought many things. One was that she was interesting, provocative
in her quiet reserve, not as easy to see through as most women. She was
clever, used her brains; he had formed a habit of talking to her on
matters that he never spoke of with other girls. And he admired her
looks, nothing cheap about them; "thoroughbred" was the word that always
rose to his mind as he greeted her. It seemed to him all wrong that she
should be working for a wage as the Janneys’ hireling, for, though he
was "advanced" in his opinions, when it came to women there was a strain
of sentimentality in his make-up.
On the wood path he let her go ahead, seeing her figure spattered with
white lights that ran across her shoulders and up and down her back.
They had walked in silence for some minutes when he suddenly said:
"What’s amiss?"
She slackened her gait so that he came up beside her.
"Amiss? With what, with whom?"
"You. What’s wrong? What’s on your mind?"
A shaft of moonlight fell through a break in the branches and struck
across her shoulder. It caught the little rosebuds that lay against her
neck and he saw them move as if lifted by a quick breath.
"There’s nothing on my mind. Why do you think there is?"
"Because at dinner you didn’t eat anything and were as quiet as if there
was an embargo on the English language."
"Couldn’t I be just stupid?"
He turned to her, seeing her face a pale oval against the silver-moted
background:
"No. Not if you tried your darndest."
Dick Ferguson’s tongue did not lend itself readily to compliments. He
gave forth this one with a seriousness that was almost solemn.
She laughed, the sound suggesting embarrassment, and looked away from
him her eyes on the ground. Just in front of them the woodland roof
showed a gap, and through it the light fell across the path in a
glittering pool. As they advanced upon it she gave an exclamation,
stayed him with an outflung arm, and bent to the moss at her feet:
"Oh, wait a minute—How exciting! I’ve found something."
She raised herself, illumined by the radiance, a small object that
showed a golden glint in her hand. Then her voice came deprecating,
disappointed:
"Oh, what a fraud! I thought it was a ring."
On her palm lay what looked like a heavy enameled ring. Ferguson took it
up; it was of paper, a cigar band embossed in red and gold.
"Umph," he said, dropping it back, "I don’t wonder you were fooled."
"It was right there on the moss shining in the moonlight. I thought I’d
found something wonderful." She touched it with a careful finger. "It’s
new and perfectly dry. It’s only been here since the storm."
"Some man taking a short cut through the woods. Better not tell Mrs.
Janney, she doesn’t like trespassers."
She held it up, moving it about so that the thick gold tracery shone:
"It’s really very pretty. A ring like that wouldn’t be at all bad.
Look!" she slipped it on her finger and held the hand out studying it
critically. It was a beautiful hand, like marble against the blackness
of the trees, the band encircling the third finger.
Ferguson looked and then said slowly:
"You’ve got it on your engagement finger."
"Oh, so I have." Her laugh came quick as if to cover confusion and she
drew the band off, saying, as she cast it daintily from her finger-tips,
"There—away with it. I hate to be fooled," and started on at a brisk
pace.
Ferguson bent and picked it up, then followed her. He said nothing for
quite suddenly, at the sight of the ring on her finger, he had been
invaded by a curious agitation, a gripping, upsetting, disturbing
agitation. It was so sharp, so unexpected, so compelling in its rapid
attack, that his outside consciousness seemed submerged by it and he
trod the path unaware of his surroundings.
He had never thought of Esther Maitland being engaged, of ever marrying.
He had accepted her as some one who would always be close at hand,
always accessible, always in town or country to be found at the
Janneys’. And the ring had brought to his mind with a startling
clearness that some day she _might_ marry. Some day a man would put a
ring on that finger, put it on with vows and kisses, put it on as a sign
and symbol of his ownership. Ferguson felt as if he had been shaken from
an agreeable lethargy. He was filled with a surge of indignation, at
what he could not exactly tell. He felt so many things that he did not
know which he felt the most acutely, but a sense of grievance was mixed
with jealousy and both were dominated by an angry certainty that any man
who aspired to her would be unworthy.
When they emerged into the open he looked at her with a new
expression—questioning, almost fierce and yet humble. Sauntering at her
side across the lawn he was so obsessed with these conflicting emotions
that he said not a word, and hardly heard hers. The Janneys were
awaiting them on the balcony steps and after an exchange of good-nights
he turned back to the wood trail and went home. In his room he threw
himself on the sofa and lay there, his hands clasped behind his head,
staring at the ceiling. It was long after midnight when he went to bed,
and before he did so he put the cigar band in the jewel box with the
crystal lid that stood on the bureau.
The Janney party trailed into the house, Sam stopping to lock the door
as the ladies moved to the stair foot. Suzanne went up with a curt
"good-night" to her mother, and no word or look for the Secretary.
Esther did not appear to notice it and, pausing with her hand on the
balustrade, proffered a request—could she have to-morrow, Saturday, to
go to town? She was very apologetic; her day off was Thursday and she
had no right to ask for another, but a friend had unexpectedly arrived
in the city, would be there for a very short time and she was extremely
anxious to see her. Mrs. Janney granted the favor with sleepy
good-nature and Miss Maitland, very grateful, passed up the stairs, the
old people dragging slowly in her wake, dropping remarks to one another
between yawns.
A long hall crossed the upper floor, one side of which was given over to
the Price household. Here were Suzanne’s rooms, Chapman’s empty
habitation, and opposite them Bébita’s nurseries. The other side was
occupied on the front by Mrs. Janney and the Secretary with a line of
guest chambers across the passage. In a small room between his wife’s
and his stepdaughter’s Mr. Janney had ensconced himself. He liked the
compact space, also his own little balcony where he had his steamer
chair and could read and sun himself. As the place was much narrower
than the apartments on either side a short branch of hall connected it
with the main corridor. His door, at the end of this hall, commanded the
head of the stairway.
Mr. Janney had a restless night; he knew he would have for he had taken
champagne and coffee and the combination was always disturbing. When he
heard the clocks strike twelve he resigned himself to a _nuit blanche_
and lay wide awake listening to the queer sounds that a house gives out
in the silent hours. They were of all kinds, gurglings and creaks coming
out of the walls, a series of small imperative taps which seemed to
emerge from his chest of drawers, thrummings and thrillings as if winged
things were shut in the closets.
Half-past twelve and one struck and he thought he was going off when he
heard a new sound that made him listen—the creaking of a door. He craned
up his old tousled head and gave ear, his eyes absently fixed on the
strips and spots of moonlight that lay white on the carpet. It was very
still, not a whisper, and then suddenly the dogs began to bark, a trail
of yaps and yelps that advanced across the lawn. Close to the house they
subsided, settling down into growls and conversational snufflings, and
he sank back on his pillow. But he was full of nerves, and the idea
suddenly occurred to him that Bébita might be sick, it might have been
the nursery door that had opened—Annie going to fetch Mrs. Janney. He’d
take a look to be sure—if anything was wrong there would be a light.
He climbed out of bed and stole into the hall. No light but the moon,
throwing silvery slants across the passage and the stair-head, and
relieved, he tiptoed back. It was while he was noiselessly closing his
door that he heard something which made him stop, still as a statue, his
faculties on the qui vive, his eye glued to the crack—a footstep was
ascending the stairs. It was as soft as the fall of snow, so light, so
stealthy that no one, unless attentive as he was, would have caught it.
Yet it was there, now and then a muffled creak of the boards emphasizing
its advance. The corridor at the head of the stairs was as bright as day
and with his eye to the crack he waited, his heart beating high and
hard.
Rising into the white wash of moonlight came Suzanne, moving with
careful softness, her eyes sending piercing glances up and down the
hall. Her expression was singular, slightly smiling, with something sly
in its sharpened cautiousness. As she rose into full view he saw that
she held her wrapper bunched against her waist with one hand and in the
other carried Bébita’s torch. He was so relieved that he made no move or
sound, but, as she disappeared in the direction of her room, softly
closed his door and went back to bed.
She had evidently left something downstairs, a book probably—he could
not see what she had in the folds of the wrapper—and had gone to get it.
If she was wakeful it was a good sign, indicated the condition of
distressful unease her mother had hoped to create. Such alarm might lead
to a salutory reform, a change, if not of heart, of behavior. Comforted
by the thought, he turned on his pillow and at last slept.