When Baird started for Westmore that evening the full moon had already turned the world white.
He had dined with laughter and talk about him, for usually the club was gay on Saturday night. The hunting season was over, but some of the summer residents of the Ridge had come out to their homes and others were out from the city for the afternoon, for dinner parties at the club and a ride back through the moonlight.
Baird had left Garvin Westmore at the club and with the signs of an afternoon of indulgence upon him. Baird had discovered that liquor made Garvin cool and silent, a surface restraint that was deceptive. It was his eyes that betrayed him when he was farther gone than usual, sometimes burning and restless, again profoundly melancholy. Baird had not thought of that explanation for the man's peculiarities.
Though he had not shown it to Garvin, Baird was thoroughly annoyed. The man must often have been under the influence of liquor when he had not suspected it; he was evidently the sort that drank secretly. Baird doubted whether any one knew that Garvin drank so much; his family were probably in the dark, worried over his moodiness and anxious about him, but unsuspicious of the real cause. Baird wished that he had known this before his firm had placed the man in a responsible position. Had he known, not even his devotion to Judith and his very lively desire to forward his own interests would have led him to recommend Garvin.
Garvin had thanked him with all the Westmore grace for the position Baird had secured for him, then added restlessly, "A month! I wish I could get out of this to-morrow!"
Baird reflected, as he rode through the moonlight, that the thing was done now and couldn't be helped. It was simply up to Garvin: if he did not make good, he would be ousted, that was all. But it was too bad. The man must be mad to celebrate his good luck by a debauch, for that was evidently what it was. Baird was no teetotaler, the consumption of a certain amount of liquor seemed to be necessary for the transaction of business, but he held, with the rest of his kind, that the man who sought to drown his troubles in drink, or celebrate his joys by getting full was a fool, and that the secret debauchee was something decidedly worse.
He was going to Westmore by the Back Road and the Mine Banks, and, as he looked up at Crest Cave, he remembered what Garvin had said: "Lord! I've slept off many a drunk up there." Baird had never solved the mysteries of that queer night he had spent at Westmore—that they were some set of circumstances connected with Garvin was the only explanation he had been able to make to himself. He felt certain of it now; a man with Garvin's weakness was capable of any sort of madness. He was glad Judith was the sane wholesome woman she was.
Baird also remembered what a man at the club had told him of Garvin's father: "The old colonel was a fine sort, hot-tempered and proud as the deuce, but a gallant sort, just the same—until the war broke him. Then came the hard times, beastly hard times for everybody, and the colonel went under—began to soak and went on soaking to the end." Edward and Judith had come before that time, but Garvin had not.
"I suppose the poor devil can't help it," Baird thought, and shrugged away his annoyance. Besides, he was going to become one of the clan; it was his duty to do all he could for Garvin.
In that soberly responsible frame of mind Baird rode up to Westmore, and the long imposing structure that for nearly two centuries had housed Judith's ancestors impressed him somberly. Perhaps it was as well, on the whole, not to have any known ancestors; it must be rather eery to recognize your great-grandfather cropping up in yourself—damned uncomfortable sometimes ... Well, Judith had certified ancestors enough to supply their family with credentials and with ghosts. Their children...
Baird's thoughts had progressed to this point and beyond when he reached Westmore. In the last twenty-four hours he had considered every possible responsibility connected with matrimony and had thought very little about the thing that turns the world golden, that transcends even the transports of passion, hallows heaven and earth. But he had not realized that. Marriage was a serious thing; it had always impressed him as an almost terrifyingly serious thing.
The door was opened to him by Hetty, the big negress. "Can I see Miss Judith?" Baird asked, preparing to step in.
"Miss Judith ain't here, Mr. Baird—she's done gone fo' a visit."
"Not here?" Baird said blankly.
"No, suh—she went this evenin' fo' over Sunday—to Fair Field. They's a party holdin' at the club—she's gone fo' hit."
Baird managed to say, casually, "Very well—just tell her, when she comes back, that I called."
"Yes, suh."
Baird rode down the Westmore Road even more slowly than he had come up. His first feeling was a hot sense of rebuff—until he began to ask himself why Judith had run away from him?... But she had not run away from him; she had not gone until that evening?... There had been the afternoon during which she might reasonably expect him to come—and the morning that might have brought her a letter from him.
It came over Baird then, with a warm flush, a shock of surprise at himself, that he had been a pretty sort of lover! He had ridden away after that kiss of love she had given him, when even a stupid man would have found an excuse for staying; he had written no impassioned note that Sam must deliver at daybreak; he had dallied through the afternoon, and had ridden composedly up to Westmore with the whole future mapped out in his mind ... Good lord!... And he was a passionate man, too—ordinarily!
Baird was so intensely surprised at himself that, for a time, he could consider nothing but his own conduct. He had never been more in earnest in his life, never more decided upon a course of action. Why, he had settled everything, even to the details of a trip abroad with Judith and the sort of house he would have money enough to run when they came back, and yet he had left undone the first and most natural things a man would do!
Baird was emotionally headlong, he knew that well, easily aroused and always hot in pursuit. What in heaven's name had been the matter with him these last twenty-four hours? His own case bewildered him more than anything he had ever come across. He set his brain to work upon himself, and finally evolved an explanation, which, as is usual when a man seeks to elucidate his own emotional shortcomings, threw the onus upon the woman: Judith's premature offering of herself had made him too sure of her. She had deliberately attracted him, and that was all right, that was what men and women were placed in the world for, to be mutually attracted and to come together. And his pursuit of her was all right, too, particularly right because it had never entered his head to trifle with her—he had respected and admired her too much for that. It was a tribute to the sort of hold she had laid upon him during those weeks of pursuit, that the instant he knew she loved him he had considered marriage and had decided upon it as completely as he had ever decided upon any important thing. The thoughts he had of Judith had been, throughout, the decentest and the honestest thoughts he had ever had.
Then he went on to own to himself that a certain eagerness had departed from him after that kiss of hers. In that one respect it had been a little like some other experiences, when he had pursued determinedly, captured rather easily, then had lost zest.... But he had wanted to marry Judith—that was the unexplainable thing.... Was it simply that, on the whole, she had been such a new experience that he had quite naturally considered marriage, which, Lord knows, was a new and strange enough thing for him to consider?
At this point, Baird asked himself point-blank, "Do you love Judith, or don't you?" And he answered himself honestly, for he felt somewhat desperately in need of honesty. "Yes, I love her, or I wouldn't be thinking of marrying her—I've never wanted to marry any other woman I've known."
Baird considered for a longer space, and then summed up thus: "From the very first Judith appealed to the best in me—she's appealed more to the mental than the physical side of me. That's why, instead of plunging along in a fever these last twenty-four hours, I've been planning for a contented future. And if respect and admiration and the certainty that a woman will make you a splendid, wife, plus a reasonable degree of passion, aren't good reasons for thinking of marriage, then I've learned nothing from watching men who have been infatuated with their wives in much the same fashion that a man is infatuated with his mistress; the result is usually ructions. I love Judith in sensible marrying fashion, but I confess I ought to feel more joyous over it."
Unless a man is permeated by the golden thing of which, as yet, Baird had little conception, he is apt to settle his own case first and the woman's last. He turned finally to a consideration of Judith. Baird was not any more conceited than the average man, but the certainty that Judith loved him about as completely as a woman could love a man was his unalterable conviction. He might live to be eighty, live to doubt most things, but of that he was certain. And it had not been a sudden thing with her; it was a culmination, a steady growing up to an involuntary offering. She desired him and wished to marry him, and not after the deliberate fashion in which he had been considering their union. Judith loved him intensely, and had sought to attract him as many honest women before her had sought to capture the men they wished to marry. She had waited through the day, then had gone because she must do something to save her pride. She knew that, if the spark was in him at all, he would follow.
He knew now just how it was with him, and he knew how it was with her. He wasn't in the least elated, yet he was pretty thoroughly committed.
What did he intend to do?
Baird was still pondering his situation when, half an hour later, he let himself through the Penniman gate. The collie must have been abroad in the moonlight seeking adventure, for Baird was not disturbed by any hostile demonstrations; the Penniman barn and house might have been abandoned property, they were so silent under the moon; there was no lighted window, no stir of any kind—until he neared the front porch—then some woman dressed in white rose from a chair, evidently startled.
Even in the bright moonlight, Baird could not tell whether it was Ann Penniman or not, he was not near enough, but he was quick to reassure whoever it was: "It's Nickolas Baird; Mr. Penniman gave me permission to come through."
It was Ann's relieved voice that answered. "Oh—is it?... I thought it was some one else," and she sat down again. Ann had the porch to herself that evening, for Sue and Coats had gone to a neighbor's, and, perhaps because she had been thinking absorbedly of Garvin, she had been startled into wondering if the rider could be he.
Baird had let his horse bring him by the shortest way, for he had had about enough of his thoughts, and was tired of the saddle. When seated in his room, in business fashion, he would decide just what course to take. It occurred to him now that he would think the better for a respite. Looking at Ann would be a relief, like laying down a treatise and taking up a novel.
He had come nearer. "Sitting all alone, Miss Ann?" he asked.
"Yes.... Father and Aunt Sue have gone to make a visit."
Baird dismounted and came to her. "Just sitting and thinking? I've been riding and thinking, and I'm tired of it. May I stop for a while?"
"If you like," Ann said indifferently. "I reckon father'll come along before long—they only went to a neighbor's." Then, because her father had decreed that Baird should be treated hospitably, she added, "Won't you wait for him?"
"A few minutes." Baird seated himself on the top step, at Ann's feet. "What a night!"
"The chair'd be more comfortable," Ann suggested politely.
"I'd rather sit here, thank you.... May I have the cushion, though?"
He took it from the chair, and sat back against the pillar of the porch, his legs stretched comfortably. He could see Ann's face quite distinctly now, all except her eyes,—they were shadowed pools in a white setting; she was black and white, more marked contrasts than in daylight, though not so clearly outlined.
"I've just been to Westmore," Baird said, "and when we struck the County Road that horse of mine turned this way, instead of going on by the Mine Banks. I was thinking too hard to notice until he'd gone some distance, so I let him have his way. They're cute beasts—when they're headed for their stables they're as good as a man at calculating distance."
"Did you get him here?" Ann asked.
"Yes, I bought him off Garvin Westmore."
"Almost every horse about here would choose this way through to the Post-Road because they're used to it. One reason the Mine Banks Road is so dreadful is because everybody used to come this shorter way. I used to count the horses that came through in a day—when I was little."
"You've always lived here, then, Miss Ann?"
"Always.... I reckon I'd be lonely for it—if I went away," she added soberly.
"You wouldn't be going far away, would you?"
"Oh, no—"
There was something in her manner that recalled fleeting conjectures Baird had had since seeing her with Edward that afternoon. Judith had said, "I realize that Edward will probably marry—" It would be odd if Edward was really thinking seriously of Ann—a Penniman and all the rest of it. There'd be a stir on the Ridge, and a perfect storm in the clan. Silly, caste-bound idiots! Ann was exquisite enough for any sphere. She had been superb while she handled that horse—plenty of spirit and go. And if Edward loved her, he'd marry her, in spite of them all; Edward was a pretty fine sort.... But how about Garvin?... Some one had talked love to Ann, it showed in her face and in her voice—that was what made her seem so changed. Was it Edward or Garvin?... She certainly had drawing power, the thing that's entirely aside from physical beauty; ugly women often had it.
Baird turned from his thoughts. "This is a different sort of place from where I grew up—just about as different as you can imagine," and he slipped into reminiscences of Chicago and of his father, and, when Ann showed her interest, he endeavored to elucidate the intricacies of ward politics.
It seemed to Ann that he had grown up with plenty of wickedness about him, drinking and stealing and such things; among men who cared nothing about any one or anything, only to make money. It was a wonder that he was as nice as he was, and he must be nice, in spite of the way he had once behaved to her, or Edward and Garvin would not be so devoted to him. Ann was certain that Judith Westmore could be cruel, very beautiful and charming, but cruelly proud. Baird was evidently courting her, and she was probably not very nice to him. He certainly did not seem as light-hearted as he once did. And neither was she—she was feeling heavy-hearted enough.
Ann was always quick with sympathy. She had been poignantly reminiscent all day, and she, in her turn, told Baird a little about her own childhood, speaking so softly that her slurred syllables were music. She told him nothing intimate, yet it was a revelation of loneliness; the fields and the woods and Ben had been her companions. Baird was impressed, as Edward had been, by a child life lived apart from its family.
"You hadn't a mother, then, Ann?" Baird had responded to the change in her manner; he forgot to say, "Miss Ann."
"My mother died when I was born," Ann said with a quiver of feeling. "I reckon if I'd had her, everything would have been all different."
Ann had grown up with the longing for a father, but since the night before she had wanted her mother, wanted her intensely. That afternoon, on their return from the village, she had gone down to the woods. There had been a letter for her in the chestnut tree, an impassioned letter. Garvin wrote of the night before, of her promise to go with him. "You are mine now, every bit of you—there can be no going back for either of us." And he had also said, "Some one has been spying on us, Ann. I found that out last night. We can't meet as we have. I'll write to you every day, but we mustn't even be seen speaking to each other, for the present. But don't let that worry you, dear—if we are careful, there is no danger of any one's knowing how much we are to each other. And it will only be for a short time—I have the agency at last—we will go in June." Then he had painted a picture of their life together that to one more experienced than Ann might have suggested some notable omissions. Ann simply knew that the letter did not make her happy.... Then there was also a book for her in the bushes, and on the fly leaf a line: "Please wait for me to-morrow?" That had not made her happy, either.
"I suppose it would have made a difference," Baird was saying thoughtfully. "It would have made a difference to me, too—it makes a difference to any child. I wasn't much better off than you—my mother died when I was four years old."
"You can't remember then even how she looked," Ann said with profound fellow-feeling, "any more than I can remember my mother."
She had slipped from her chair, seated herself on the step beside him, and Baird could see her eyes now, wells of sympathy. So long as she lived, Ann would do such things, offer sympathy by the suggestion of a caress, just as she would always respond to the masculine call by an illusive half-promise. Baird saw her sympathy and felt her nearness. She was an utterly sweet thing; he would have liked to touch her; not in the rough way in which he once had, just draw her close and kiss her softly. He kept his rebellious hands clasped behind his head.
"I can just remember her face—in the misty way I saw yours when you were in the chair," he said steadily. "I can't remember where or when, but I know it was my mother. She was black and white—like you." Baird did not tell her that his mother had been a Jewess; that was a thing he told no one, though he often shrugged in private over his parentage, a Jewish mother and an Irish father! A truly modern American inheritance! "And not such a bad one, either," he was in the habit of adding to himself. "It produces good brains." Just now his brain was retrospective, his feelings busied with Ann.
"I suppose a mother is just as helpful to a boy as she is to a girl," he continued, in the same reflective way. "I suppose, if I'd had my mother to talk to, I'd know women better—all the nice side of them—the mother side.... I suppose I'd know myself better.... Lord knows, I'd like some one to tell me what the lasting thing is composed of—the thing one wants to go through life with."
There was a long silence. Ann was also reflecting vaguely on the same subject, her hands clasped about her knees, her head thrown back, looking up at the stars that appeared to move restlessly, as if palely rebellious under the supremacy of the moon. A cricket beneath the steps ventured upon the stillness, and, as if emboldened by its temerity, a bird flitted by them to the clump of lilacs on the terrace and cut the silence with injunctions to "Whip-poor-will!" Far off, somewhere in the open, his mate agreed with him and reiterated his insistence. Then, just below them, in the pasture, a bobwhite called repeatedly, seeking an answer, which came presently, from the far distance, faint almost as a whispered echo.
"The night birds are making love," Baird said softly. "All nature's stirring with it. Ann, what is love, anyway? The thing we humans ought to have—the lasting thing, I mean?"
"I've been thinking, too," Ann answered musingly. "Why—I suppose it's ... I don't know just how to say it—"
"Try, Ann—you're a woman, you ought to know."
Ann pondered, eyes still lifted to the stars. "Why—I guess it's wanting somebody for all your own—so badly you feel sure you can't live without them ... an' at the same time bein' such good friends with them that you care more about makin' them happy than being happy yourself."
Baird sat up abruptly. "Say that again, will you!"
Ann was startled into confusion. She looked wonderingly at his earnestness. "I don't believe I know—just what I said."
Baird repeated her definition alertly. "That was it, wasn't it?"
"Yes, I think so."
He sat a moment in thought. "That's about right," he said finally and decidedly, "and here I've been asking myself all sorts of fool questions for twenty-four solid hours."
He got up, stood a moment looking down at her, laughing softly, amusedly, and with an air of relief. "And you're not sure just what you did say! It was a bit of wisdom that slipped out of your subconsciousness.... Ann, you're a divinely dear thing! I'm grateful to you for existing, and I'll come another evening and tell you so."
Ann had recovered somewhat from surprise. This was a little more like the impetuous young man who had displeased her because she had liked his kiss. She shook hands with him distantly. "Father'll be here then, I hope."
Baird did not stop to parley. He rode off through the cedar avenue, turned his horse over to Sam, and went directly to his room. He threw aside his cap and, sitting down at his table, wrote to Judith.
It was Hetty who gave Baird's letter to Judith on Monday morning, as soon as Judith returned from Fair Field. "Mr. Baird come in Saturday evenin' an' he look mighty surprised when I tol' him you was gone," Hetty said, "an' yestiddy mo'nin' Sam Jackson, he come from de club fetchin' this letter.... Honey, you ain't lookin' right smart—weren't de party no 'count?"
"Yes, the party was all right," Judith answered briefly. "I'm tired, that's all."
Hetty knew better, but what the trouble was she could not guess.
Hetty had lived with the Westmores for fifty years. She was born in a Westmore cabin and was a slave child when the war broke. On the morning when the Westmore slaves had celebrated their emancipation by departing from Westmore, Hetty had been left behind. She had clung to the family throughout the hard years, the only house-servant Westmore possessed until Edward's wife's money helped to resurrect the place. She had been mammy to all the Westmore children, had "toted" both Edward and Judith and had been sole mother to Sarah and Garvin, for Mrs. Westmore had soon faded into God's half-acre, leaving Judith to become mistress of Westmore; master of Westmore, in reality, for the colonel was no longer master of anything, least of all of himself.
Hetty had a dog's attachment to Westmore and the family, and for Judith, not merely attachment, but worship. Judith wielded the whip sometimes, her stinging, cutting tongue, and Hetty cowered under it, as on the night when she had let Sarah escape to the Mine Banks. Hetty had known that Sarah's change from gentleness to restlessness portended an out-break and was confident in the strength of her own arms, they had often restrained Sarah in the old days, but she had not had intelligence enough to circumvent cunning. Just as now, when she sensed tension in Edward, in Garvin, and in Judith, she was unable to determine the cause. As soon as Judith returned, pale and bright-eyed and with lips hard set, Hetty knew that she was in trouble of some sort. She could only wait upon her dumbly, watch her in canine fashion.
Judith did not read Baird's letter at once. She attended to her household first. When she knew she could shut herself away without fear of interruption, she opened it.
"Dear Wonder-Woman," Baird wrote."Though I feel that I have forfeited the joy of ever again calling you so, that you will be quite right if you decree never to see or speak to me again, I can't help thinking of you just as I always have, as the most wonderful woman I have ever known."You are big-natured and kind enough to forgive me for the other night? You are, aren't you? You know, don't you, that I meant no disrespect when I forgot for a moment that you are too fine, too far beyond me for me ever to touch? I've not been a very good sort, Judith—I dropped for a moment into old ways. If by my fault I have lost your friendship, I feel that I shall lose the best thing that has ever come into my life. You have kept me to decent ways—you have taught me reverence for much that I used to consider loosely. That's why you are, and always will be the Wonder-woman."Will you forgive me and let me try in the future to be better worthy of your friendship and your kindness? I want them both, more than I have ever wanted anything."Yours in sincere regret,"Nickolas Baird."
"Dear Wonder-Woman," Baird wrote.
"Though I feel that I have forfeited the joy of ever again calling you so, that you will be quite right if you decree never to see or speak to me again, I can't help thinking of you just as I always have, as the most wonderful woman I have ever known.
"You are big-natured and kind enough to forgive me for the other night? You are, aren't you? You know, don't you, that I meant no disrespect when I forgot for a moment that you are too fine, too far beyond me for me ever to touch? I've not been a very good sort, Judith—I dropped for a moment into old ways. If by my fault I have lost your friendship, I feel that I shall lose the best thing that has ever come into my life. You have kept me to decent ways—you have taught me reverence for much that I used to consider loosely. That's why you are, and always will be the Wonder-woman.
"Will you forgive me and let me try in the future to be better worthy of your friendship and your kindness? I want them both, more than I have ever wanted anything.
"Yours in sincere regret,
"Nickolas Baird."
Judith had known that it would be a withdrawal of some sort.... She sat for a long time with the letter in her lap, looking straight before her, feeling rather than thinking. Then she got up abruptly, let the pages fall, and went to the window, looking down on Westmore, at the terraces, off over the country with its promise of plentiful harvest, then up at the Westmore half-acre.... God's half-acre?... He had dealt hardly with some who lay there, and He had dealt hardly with her.
With the ache of irreparable loss torturing her, Judith went back in bitter retrospect over the years. What chance had she had? She had given her youth to Westmore; every nerve, every energy, every atom of her brain and body strained, year in and year out, to the one purpose, the conservation of the family. Her mother had slipped away and left the burden to her. Her father had weighted the burden until it was mountain-high, then had left her to carry it. Edward had flung aside family allegiance and had gone; Sarah had worse than failed her, added dread and a stigma to the burden; Garvin had remained, but more of an anxiety than a help.... Edward had come back to allegiance, tried through the last ten years to lighten her burden as much as possible, and now had lifted it to his own shoulders, but that could not bring back her youth or soften the callouses on her shoulders. They were attached to the bone, by long galling become an irremovable part of her. She was thirty-four; she had crossed the apex; she had started on the downward way.... And that letter told her so.
Cheeks white and eyes flaming, Judith stared at God's half-acre. What chance had she had? What hadHesent her in those twenty years of struggle? She had worked faithfully, but what hadHedone to satisfy thewomanin her—the ache forlife! A cousin had made love to her and a nobody, a boy whose father had been overseer of slaves, had ventured to tell her that he loved her, and both romances had had their inception and their close back in the years when she was young enough to be all appeal and no brain—the sort upon which Baird would expend himself—some brainless pretty girl who would have no conception of the possibilities that lay in the man who would be mad over her.
Judith turned from the window, goaded into restless pacing by the thought. Some girl who could smile like Ann Penniman! Just allure, nothing more, but the thing that captures, nevertheless.... Baird had come to her too late; not too late if she had been like some women, experienced in the art of capture. Though cumbered by thirty-four years, she was as inexperienced as any girl, and far more ineffective because made awkward by pride and a consciousness of the overwhelming thing which had grown and grown in her until it had led her to that moment in his arms.
Judith's tightly-gripped hands twisted when she thought of that sudden offering. What woman who was not made a fool of by passion would have made that mistake!... Or what woman possessed of an iota of strategic ability would, after making one mistake, have made another, allowed her pride to carry her away when her one hope lay in the elimination of pride? Had she remained at Westmore, Baird would be hers now, and quite unconscious that he had been a dilatory lover; and she had beauty and charm enough to have kept him in ignorance. He would have married her in ignorance and been happy, as thousands of other men had married and been content, for she had a beautiful body and a clear understanding of both his possibilities and his defects. And she loved him completely.
But she had blundered stupidly, irremediably—loosened the hold she had on him by one uncontrollable act, and, by another misstep, had given his usually cool brain time to adjust itself and pen her that cruelly clever letter.... It was damnably clever; it eliminated himself, and pointed out to her the only role it would be possible for her to play.... She had lost him, and through her own fault—because she loved him too much. She wanted to scream; she had to hold herself with strong hands. If she had Sarah's taint in her, she would go mad.
It was the ache of desolation that finally brought Judith to her knees, laid her quivering across her bed, crying like a child under the lash. And it was pride and the tenacity that had held her to Westmore, a faint hope of the future, that, later on, nerved her to write her answer:
"Dear Nickolas:"Of course you are forgiven, for I have succeeded in forgiving myself. At the risk of your thinking me immodest, I'll speak plainly—the moon and the spring-time were a little too much for us the other evening, and we behaved rather foolishly. I'm some eight years older than you are, and I certainly should have known better, so I take the blame—if there is any—upon myself. Let us think of it as an incident, a bit of nature, or a bit of sweetness, or quite a reprehensible proceeding, or in any way that's proper to think of it, but certainly not as a thing that can for a moment affect our sincere liking for each other. I have enjoyed our friendship fully as much as you have, and I certainly want it to continue. If, as you say, I have helped you by stimulating that very good brain of yours, I am happy."Please be sure that you are always welcome at Westmore. We are all of us fond of you, and I'm as eager as can be to have you succeed. Edwin Carter was at Fair Field yesterday, and he spoke enthusiastically of you. He talked quite a long time to me about you and told me as a state secret that he was going to urge Mr. Dempster to send you to Europe in the autumn—he said they couldn't spare you till then. It will be splendid if they do that—I hope they will."Your affectionate friend,"Judith Westmore.""Don't forget Priscilla Copeley's lawn party on Wednesday. Elizabeth Dickenson and Christine Carter are coming out on the three-thirty, they told me."
"Dear Nickolas:
"Of course you are forgiven, for I have succeeded in forgiving myself. At the risk of your thinking me immodest, I'll speak plainly—the moon and the spring-time were a little too much for us the other evening, and we behaved rather foolishly. I'm some eight years older than you are, and I certainly should have known better, so I take the blame—if there is any—upon myself. Let us think of it as an incident, a bit of nature, or a bit of sweetness, or quite a reprehensible proceeding, or in any way that's proper to think of it, but certainly not as a thing that can for a moment affect our sincere liking for each other. I have enjoyed our friendship fully as much as you have, and I certainly want it to continue. If, as you say, I have helped you by stimulating that very good brain of yours, I am happy.
"Please be sure that you are always welcome at Westmore. We are all of us fond of you, and I'm as eager as can be to have you succeed. Edwin Carter was at Fair Field yesterday, and he spoke enthusiastically of you. He talked quite a long time to me about you and told me as a state secret that he was going to urge Mr. Dempster to send you to Europe in the autumn—he said they couldn't spare you till then. It will be splendid if they do that—I hope they will.
"Your affectionate friend,
"Judith Westmore."
"Don't forget Priscilla Copeley's lawn party on Wednesday. Elizabeth Dickenson and Christine Carter are coming out on the three-thirty, they told me."
The letter reached Baird that evening and he read it eagerly, then sat in thought over it for a time. It did not alter his conviction in the least, though it did call forth his sincere admiration. "She's fine—a thoroughbred! She knew just what note to strike!" Then his shrewdness added, "But I'm not forgiven—not a bit more than she forgives herself, and I'm sorry."
Baird got up and walked about then, half reflective, half restless. He had the evening on his hands; he couldn't go to Westmore until the next night—he must go then—what was he going to do for the next three moonlit hours—until he could go to bed?
He got his horse, finally, and rode through the cedar avenue; if Ann was about he would stop and talk with her.
In the days, or rather, the evenings, that followed, Baird came and went by the cedar avenue. Though as frequent a caller at Westmore as ever, he appeared to have a penchant for the short cut, and curiously enough he seemed also to prefer the longest way back to the club from the station, around by the County Road and through the Penniman place.
With the purpose of bringing Baird often to Westmore, and at the same time bridging the awkward interval of adjustment, Judith had asked Elizabeth Dickenson and Christine Carter for a fortnight's visit at Westmore. Judith had given much thought to what must be her attitude to Baird, a perfect friendliness and the best presentation of herself always; while Baird, who possessed in full the masculine capacity to forget an affair in which he had lost interest, had given the matter no thought at all. It was a thing finished, comfortably adjusted, disposed of. He liked Judith very much, occasionally he wondered how in the world he had ever mistaken liking for anything else, for in comparing her with Ann she appeared so unalluringly mature; he had simply been off his head for a time, that was all.
Baird was gallant to Judith without effort, and attentive to her guests, and glad, on the whole, that he rarely saw Judith alone. He went about to the Ridge gatherings with Judith and her guests, gave a dinner party at the club for them, taking care always that he should not be detained so late that he could not stop for a few minutes, at least, at the Penniman house.
He took a great deal of pains to secure that few moments with Ann, or an hour or more, if he could manage it. It would seem that Coats and Sue tacitly favored him, for simultaneously with his regular comings and goings they forsook the front porch. They had many calls to return, frequent evening drives to the village, and, when not actually off the place, they were not in evidence. Ben was always there, but he never obtruded.
Though Ann appeared to be too self-absorbed to pay any particular attention to him, Baird noticed that she looked annoyed when, not finding any one on the porch, he had the assurance to knock at the living-room entrance, forcing her to come down from her room. She always told him with frozen politeness that her father and Aunt Sue were out, and that he must keep quiet and not wake her grandfather. Baird knew that, in the evenings, Ann was always somewhere about the place, for Sue waited upon the old man during the day, and it had become Ann's duty to watch over him in the evenings. He always went to bed early now, and slept heavily; he had grown very deaf and feeble in the last few weeks.
With his usual assurance, Baird would beg Ann to come out to the porch, and often he stayed until late, using every art he knew to interest Ann. He talked on many subjects, and Ann listened; sometimes Baird was certain that she was not even listening.
He did not know what to make of her. She was utterly unlike the girl whom he had once roughly kissed; often so absent-minded that Baird vowed to himself in rage that it would be the last time he would try to talk to her. But there were the times when she aroused and was gravely thoughtful, and best of all were her occasional lapses into sweetness. Baird thought her irresistibly charming then, "divinely dear," as on the night when she had unconsciously solved his doubts for him. And she was so young; so utterly young that she made him feel vastly experienced.
Half a dozen times during the fortnight Baird decided that he would stop riding through the Penniman place, put temptation behind him, and as many times lapsed into an unsatisfactory investigation of Ann. Nobody knew what he was about; he'd like to make up his mind about Ann before the Ridge began to gossip about his devotion. He wondered, uncomfortably, what Judith would say if she knew how often he was at the Pennimans'. What would Edward think?
Judith already knew. The fortnight she had planned so carefully was not yet over when, one day, Hetty remarked: "Sam Jackson, he was tellin' me Mr. Baird is settin' up mos' every night with Ann Penniman. Sam says he don't go nor come no other way but through de Penniman place. I reckon Mr. Baird, he ain't been long enough on de Ridge to know jes' who is de right famb'lys 'roun' here."
Judith received the information in perfect silence, carried it about with her for a hotly jealous day, before she imparted it to Edward. Edward was the one person who could say an effective word to Baird.
Judith chose an opportunity when they were alone. "Hetty tells me that they are talking at the club about Mr. Baird's going so much to the Pennimans'—he seems to be taken with Ann." Judith was purposely abrupt; if Edward was startled, so much the better.
He was startled, more moved than she thought he could be; he rarely flushed, but the color grew in his face until he was crimson. "He might spend his time to worse advantage," he returned icily.
Judith's nerves were not under the best of control, for it had been a wretched two weeks, every day of which had assured her of Baird's complete withdrawal. A slight sneer crept into her even answer: "Ann is hardly the girl for Nickolas Baird to marry—for any one who considered social position to marry—is she?... Isn't it your duty to advise him a little?"
Edward changed from red to white. He rose from his chair and stood over his sister, looked at her as Judith had not seen him look since the day when he had defied her father and had left Westmore. "Ann would grace any position—I intend to help her to do so," he said, and left the room.
Judith sat in petrified silence.... So Edward loved the girl.... She had not suspected that.... A long vista opened before Judith Westmore: she was reminded that Edward owned Westmore; that he could make Ann mistress of Westmore if he chose; that his fortune was his to dispose of as he liked. She and Garvin were dependents upon him, nothing more. The shock of the thing stilled her. She was utterly helpless—she could do nothing.
By degrees, Baird also had come to the conclusion that Edward loved Ann Penniman, and that she loved him to the extent of being completely indifferent to every one else. From the way in which Baird sometimes paced his room after an evening at the Pennimans', his conclusions certainly disturbed him. Baird's powers of observation had been on the alert; he guessed that Edward saw Ann frequently. Edward came to the club almost every afternoon, dallied over a mint-julep, then went off down the Back Road, and Baird had discovered that often it was a full hour before he rode out of the woods again.
If Garvin had been up to that sort of thing, Baird would not have granted Ann much chance of happiness; but Edward was as straight a man as he had ever known. If he was making love to Ann, it was intended seriously. He couldn't come to her house; to meet her secretly was the only thing he could do; it was what he himself would do under the same circumstances.... And Edward had the right of way; he was in the field first and, more than that, Edward was his friend. He, Baird, had no right to be hanging about trying to interest Ann. What the devil was the matter with him, anyway, that he was determined to get into such messes! Here, he had just failed Judith, and now he was urged to get in Edward's way.... It would be wild folly for him to fall in love with Ann.
For four restless nights Baird kept away from Ann. He was too upset to go anywhere. Judith's guests had gone and he could not bring himself to go to Westmore; he did not want to see either Judith or Edward. The last night of the four Baird spent in the city, and came back the next day swearing to himself that he'd not dothatagain—he'd rather sit in his room and do nothing. Then, quite suddenly, he reached a characteristic decision; it did not take him long to get into the saddle and to the Penniman house.
Coats and Sue were not there, but neither was Ann, though Baird knocked an unreasonable time at the living-room door. He walked around the house then, and was rewarded by meeting Ann, who was hurrying up the spring-house path, breathless, as from a run.
To accomplish the momentous thing that had been weighing upon her, Ann had risked leaving her grandfather alone for a short time. During the last two weeks it had made little difference to Ann whether she sat on the porch listening to Baird, or lay on her bed thinking of the thing that loomed large before her. It had grown out of her two weeks of companionship with Edward. No matter what the hurt to Garvin, she must tell him the truth.
She had written her confession that day, spent hours and much paper over the short letter, and as soon as her father and Sue were safely away she had taken it to the woods. She was back now; the thing was done; she was panting as much from nervousness as from haste.
The sight of a man looming dimly in the path startled her and she stopped. She felt ill enough to be frightened by everything; a moment before a bird had fluttered in the grapevines and her heart had stood still.
"It's only I—don't be frightened," Baird's voice said.
Ann came on without answer.
"You've been running—where have you been?" Baird questioned. He felt jealously certain that Ann had been to the woods—to see Edward, of course.
Ann did not answer his question. "Were you at the house? Was grandpa all right?" she asked anxiously.
"I think so—everything was quiet.... Why don't you wait a minute and get your breath?... I want to ask you something, anyway, Ann?"
Ann did pause. "Well?" she asked indifferently.
Baird looked at her in silence for a moment. Even in the dim light he could see that she was white and tired. If she was in love with Edward, it did not seem to make her joyful. She had never looked really happy since the day he had seen her playing in the barn. He asked his question abruptly, "Ann, are you engaged to anybody?"
Ann simply stared at him.
Baird's face had grown hot. "Are you in love with any one, Ann?... I'd rather you told me frankly.... If you are, I'll stop coming around and bothering you. If you're not, I'm going to make you like me."
There was a long silence. Then Ann said, "I'd rather you stayed away."
"You're sure of that, Ann?"
"Yes."
Baird stood in uncertainty for a moment; it was hard for him to hold to his decision. He was carrying his riding-whip, and he slashed viciously at the Bouncing-Betsies that edged the path, his teeth set.
Then he straightened. "Well—I guess there's nothing I can do—so I'll be off."
They went up to the house in silence.
Garvin Westmore sat at the mouth of Crest Cave, his eyes fixed on the Back Road and on the stretch of woods below the Penniman house. He had sat for the greater part of the day almost motionless and steadily watching—watching every one who came and went by the Back Road, who entered or left the woods.
Beside him, emptied to the last drop, was the bottle, his comforter during the last two weeks of brooding suspense, and near it lay Ann's letter, the confession she had carried to the woods the night before. Garvin had feared the Thing in himself that stirred so frequently now, and that dropped back into quietude only when he drugged it. Therefore he had drunk persistently and deeply during the last two weeks, spent whole days when he was supposed to be in the city, lying on the carpet of pine-needles, feeling that, though he had to drug the Thing heavily, he was still himself,unpossessed, thinking quite clearly and coolly, as he was thinking now.
Once, when he was a boy, the Thing had suddenly come to life in him, swept him aside for mad hours that neither his family nor he had ever forgotten. Then for long years he had been as free of it as if it had never revealed itself. When he had changed from a boy to a man, it had stirred in him, and they called it "melancholia." It was the same Thing that had shut Sarah away from life.
Then had come the years when he was a man grown, and the Thing stirred only occasionally, "fits of depression" that lifted easily into excitement and dropped suddenly into perfect self-possession. He had learned then that drink lifted him out of depression, not into ungovernable excitement or into elation, but into coolness and capability.Heknew that the Thing lay in him ready to spring into activity at any moment, but he had learned how to deceive those about him; he even half-deceived his family.
All night he had been in the grip of depression. He had not slept because of it, and that morning when ostensibly he was on his way to the city, he had come to the Mine Banks and had hidden his horse, bent upon gaining the usual relief. At noon he had gone to the woods, by way of the creek, and had secured Ann's letter. Fortified as he was, he had read it without mad excitement. It confirmed the apprehension that, during the last two weeks, had kept him in persistent depression.
He went back to Crest Cave with the queer surface restraint upon him that drink always produced, and had drained the last drop from the bottle, his mind focused upon the suspicion over which he had brooded ever since the night Edward had made him promise not to go near Ann.
Ann had written:
"Dear Garvin:"If I could endure it any longer without telling you, I'd not write this; but I can't. You have asked me all along in your letters why I have written so anxiously, and I have told you that I wasn't happy because I was worried about everything, but I didn't tell you the real reason."Garvin, I can't do it. I don't love you enough to go with you. Almost from the time I promised I've been sorry I promised. I'm wretched because I have to tell you. I feel sick when I think of how it will hurt you, and I hate myself for not having known my heart any better. I meant everything I ever said to you. I thought I loved you, and I did want you to be happy. I still want you to be happy—I want you to have everything good that a man can have. But you want something that I've found out is not in me to give to you. That's the thing I have found out about myself, and it isn't right not to tell you."There isn't any more I can say, except that begging won't change my feeling to you. Please forget me. You'll be gone from here to where you'll find people you like."I'll always think lovingly of you—you were kind to me when I was dreadfully unhappy. You and Edward have both been kind to me. Lovingly,Ann."
"Dear Garvin:
"If I could endure it any longer without telling you, I'd not write this; but I can't. You have asked me all along in your letters why I have written so anxiously, and I have told you that I wasn't happy because I was worried about everything, but I didn't tell you the real reason.
"Garvin, I can't do it. I don't love you enough to go with you. Almost from the time I promised I've been sorry I promised. I'm wretched because I have to tell you. I feel sick when I think of how it will hurt you, and I hate myself for not having known my heart any better. I meant everything I ever said to you. I thought I loved you, and I did want you to be happy. I still want you to be happy—I want you to have everything good that a man can have. But you want something that I've found out is not in me to give to you. That's the thing I have found out about myself, and it isn't right not to tell you.
"There isn't any more I can say, except that begging won't change my feeling to you. Please forget me. You'll be gone from here to where you'll find people you like.
"I'll always think lovingly of you—you were kind to me when I was dreadfully unhappy. You and Edward have both been kind to me. Lovingly,Ann."
Garvin had tossed the letter aside. It lay through the afternoon, its open page stirred occasionally by the light breeze. The slight rustle and the whispering of the pines were almost the only sounds, except when the birds sang. Garvin moved only when some one passed along the Back Road; then he bent forward, his eyes burning and intent beneath lifted brows. He watched Coats Penniman drive up to the woods and disappear; later on, saw Baird ride up the Back Road, evidently returning from the city. He watched him intently, made sure it was Baird, and settled back again into alert waiting.
It was late in the afternoon when another horseman, riding toward the club, came slowly up through the pastures and melted into the woods. Garvin sat, head craned and eyes narrowed, watching every step of the man's progress. When the woods had swallowed the rider, Garvin got up, circled the Crest, and went down to the Mine Banks Road. He crossed it, then crossed swiftly the open space between the road and the creek, and went down into the bed of the creek for better cover, and, with the caution of the practised hunter, made his slow way along to where it left the woods.
It had taken some time to creep along without noise. When he reached the woods, where the field undergrowth gave way to trees and the banks of the creek were studded with rocks, he waited for a time, crouched behind a rock. He had come with the utmost caution, still, a broken twig, some slight sound, might have betrayed him. He heard nothing but the wood sounds, no voices or stir of any kind. Then he straightened, though still well sheltered by the rock, and looked about him.
There was no one there. So far as his keen eyes could discover, there was no one on the steep upward slope of the woods beyond the creek, no one on this side either; no one on the road leading to the club, or on the road that branched off to the Penniman house. A short distance away was the flat rock with the bank rising above it and the saucer-like depression in which it lay semicircled by a dense screen of chinkapin bushes. He could wait there, it was a very perfect hiding-place, but from that point he could not see the two roads. He was better placed where he was, for a growth of wood-honeysuckle surrounded his hiding-place; by parting it a little he could see very well and not be seen. Garvin waited some time before his brother returned from the club. Where the road forked, Edward stopped, looked up the Penniman Road, then dismounted and came toward the creek. He led his horse behind the chinkapin bushes, left it, and came to the top of the bank, looking down at the flat rock. Then he climbed down, seated himself, and looked down at the swirling water. He looked at it steadily, except when he turned to look up at the screen of bushes. He was waiting for some one.
Garvin also waited. A hot cord had begun to tighten about his head, forcing the blood into his eyes, yet he stood quite still; he was thinking quite clearly; he had known it would be like this.... Even when Ann came around the screen of bushes, he did not stir.
Edward sprang up and helped her down. Garvin could see their every motion, even their expression, the smile each had for the other; but they spoke very low, so low that the murmur of their voices mingled confusingly with the ceaseless gurgle of the water.... He could not creep any nearer to them and not be discovered.... But he needed no clearer confirmation than actions: when Ann stood beside him, Edward put his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes while she talked rapidly and distressedly. When they sat down, Edward sat at her feet. When he began to talk to her, long and low and steadily, he took her hands, both her hands, and Ann's face was bent so that Garvin could not see it. Apparently she said nothing, simply sat motionless, enthralled by what Edward was saying.
Garvin went on thinking—quite clearly. He had known he would find just this. He had seen it all enacted while he sat up there in the Mine Banks—this and more—and he had planned just what he would do. He had a good cool brain; he was clever to have decided that this was the state of things, to have foreseen it all and to have planned to the last detail. Let Edward have his hour, the—thief! He, Garvin, would have his hour, too!
He felt a tense elation, like one who ruled destinies. When Ann's voice lifted in a smothered cry of emotion, the sudden answer to the pause in Edward's steady speech, Garvin only parted the bushes a little more widely, watched more intently. She had slipped into Edward's arms and he was holding her, her arms about his neck, his arms clasping her. He kissed her many times, murmured over her, and then she began to weep, breathlessly, a note of joy in her tears, words and tears and caresses commingled.
"Edward is sedate!" the gibing Thing that was Garvin Westmore said. With Ann's arms about his neck and her head on his breast, he was talking her into calmness, talking, talking, interminably, the deep murmur of his voice never once raised, soothing her as one would a child. And when, at last, they stood up, his hands were on her shoulders again. But his face betrayed him; he wore a look of exaltation, and Ann's was tremulously happy. They thought themselves pledged to each other for all time, those two!
They went up out of the hollow hand in hand, and parted after a long kiss. Ann crossed the creek and ran up the opposite slope, turning often to look at Edward, who stood watching her absorbedly, a lightly-moving, radiant thing. She paused for a long moment, poised on the crest of the slope, a slender graceful form, young as the young green that framed her—then disappeared over the crest. She had gone to the cluster of pines at the edge of the woods, to sit there for a time with her happiness.
Edward watched until even her graceful head had vanished. Then he mounted and rode out by the Back Road—taking his way by the Mine Banks to Westmore.
Garvin crept down along the creek, went as he had come. He would reach the Mine Banks before his brother did.
Sue Penniman had been searching frantically for Ann, through the house, on the terraces; she had even gone down the cedar avenue and then to the spring-house. She had not gone to the barn, for Coats was at the barn and Ann was certain not to be there; besides, Sue did not want to see Coats, not until she had found Ann and forced her to tell the truth.
But she could not find Ann. She came back finally to the kitchen steps and called up to the negress who was busy above, "Rachel, do you know where Ann is?"
"I seen her go down by the woods, Miss Sue."
"When?"
"About a' hour ago."
Sue paused; then she asked, "Was she dressed up, Rachel?"
"Yes'm—she got on her white dress."
"All right," Sue said, trying to keep the thickness out of her voice.
Sue put the corner of the house between her and the woman, and stood for a moment in confused thought. She was too terrified to think clearly; she could make no plan; she felt bewildered and helpless.... She would have to tell Coats—she dared not keep the thing to herself. He would have to be told in the end, anyway.... It was trouble again for Coats, desperate trouble. It was of Coats Sue was thinking, more than of Ann. She would rather have died than bring this thing on him, this long perspective of trouble for them all.
Sue went draggingly to the barn. Coats was in the wagon-shed, shifting the buggies and wagons so as to make room for a new hayrack.
He saw Sue come in, simply that she was there, in the doorway. "Time for supper?" he asked. "I didn't know it was so late." He was looking at the bare space he had made.
"Coats—"
At the husky note he turned quickly and saw her face. He reached her at a stride. "Sue!"
Sue could not find words; she looked at him haggardly.
"What's the matter?" he demanded. "What's happened?"
"It's Ann, Coats."
His brows lowered and the color came in his face. "Ann?... Well?"
"I just found it out this afternoon.... She's been meeting Garvin Westmore—for a long time. They've planned to go away together." Sue could not bring herself to tell him her worst fear, not at once.
But Coats leaped to it; he grew white. "She, she's not—?"
"I don't know—Coats," she said with difficulty. "I can't find her anywhere—I wanted to ask her before I told you. Rachel says she went down to the woods about an hour ago.... I ran out of writin' paper an' went to Ann's room, to her box for some, an' I found a sheet in it with 'Dear Garvin' an' some other words of a letter that was begun. I was so frightened I broke open her trunk then, an' I found a lot of his letters. He, writes like they were engaged, but ... Coats, I'm afraid—I'm afraid she's in trouble—" She would have to say it sooner or later; it was best they should face it together.
Coats had grown quite gray, the down-drawn muscles of his face making him look old. He looked away from Sue's quivering face, beyond her to the open, staring down the vista of the past. "It had to be a Westmore, of course," he said slowly and with extraordinary evenness. "It's about time that family became extinct."
To one who did not know Coats Penniman, the words would sound cold, but Sue knew the meaning of the gray tint that had overspread his face, and the extent of the concentrated rage that edged each word with bitter sarcasm. In her terror she began to cry. "I don't know it's true, Coats—I don't know it's true, dear.... I haven't talked to Ann. We can't tell till we've asked Ann.... Coats, if harm comes to you because of this, it'll just kill me—"
Coats looked at her; took her arm. "Don't, Sue—don't cry so.... I can't do anything till I'm sure. I can't tell till I see his letters. Where are they, Sue?"
"At the house.... It'll drive you mad to read them."
"Oh, no, it won't," Coats said, through tight lips. "It may drive Edward mad, though. I shall settle my account with both of them ... when I'm ready.... Where did you say Ann had gone?"
"Rachel said she had gone down to the woods. She said Ann was dressed up—I thought maybe she had gone away with Garvin—it's what he's been askin' her to do."
"Not in broad daylight," Coats said, in the same cutting way. "His kind do their work at night.... She'll come back—and with nothing but misery before her.... If Marian had only lived, the child might have been saved—" At thought of his wife, he dropped into huskiness and restless motion. "Come to the house," he said thickly. "We can't stand here doing nothing."
Sue followed him as he strode along. "Go by the front way," she begged. "Rachel mustn't see.... And father; Coats, you mustn't tell father—it'll kill him—it'll bring on a stroke, Coats."
Coats stopped. He had regained his composure. "Keep calm," he said. "I mean to keep calm. We've faced trouble together before, Sue—we're neither of us going to go mad."
"I'd rather have died than have this happen."
"I know you would. You're all Penniman, Sue—there're some of us mongrel, but not you."
They went in by the front porch. "Bring me the letters," Coats said, in the same quiet way.
Sue went to Ann's room and gathered them up from the bed where they lay scattered, as she had left them when she had hurried to find Ann. She brought, also, the sheet of paper that had led her to discovery, placed them all in Coats' hands.
Coats read them, Ann's few blotted sentences first. It was Ann's struggle over her letter to Garvin, a beginning put aside because it was so ill-written and blotted:
"Dear Garvin:"If I could endure any longer without telling you, I'd not write this, but I can't. You have asked me all along in your letters why I have written so anxiously, and I have told you that I wasn't happy because I was worried about everything, but I didn't tell you the real reason."
"Dear Garvin:
"If I could endure any longer without telling you, I'd not write this, but I can't. You have asked me all along in your letters why I have written so anxiously, and I have told you that I wasn't happy because I was worried about everything, but I didn't tell you the real reason."
Coats read it, then passed from letter to letter, his brows lowering more and more ominously, his eyes graying to steel as he noted such sentences as these: "Why do you let your mind dwell on the possibility of trouble—we are going away so soon, Ann—in less than a month we'll be together. I'm going to live to make you happy, then." And in another letter there was the underlined sentence, "You are mine, now, every bit of you—there can be no going back for either of us;" and in the same letter "... if we are careful, there is no danger of any one's knowing how much we are to each other. And it will only be for a short time—I have the agency at last—we will go in June." Coats understood as neither Ann nor Sue had understood the omissions in the picture of their life together with which Garvin had closed his letter. He understood perfectly what was in Garvin's mind. He knew what Garvin was, as Sue could not know. The men on the Ridge knew Garvin Westmore; he was an open secret.
When Coats put down the last letter and sat looking at the collected evidences of sensual infatuation and very evident suffering, a sort of madness that could not be given the name of love, he was without even the faint doubt that had given Sue a ray of hope. There might be girls who had either the coolness or the hardihood to pass through a siege such as this unscathed. Or the occasional girl who, though capable of arousing mad passions, remains aloof, wrapped in a self-sufficient self-respect that makes her invincible. But it was not his reading of the child who had grown up without anybody's particular care. He had said to Sue, "She's bound to have her bit of life, have it and pay for it." It had come sooner and more terribly than he had feared. Coats thought of Ann when she was a little thing, just able to walk across the floor, her steps, as always, leading her to him, and his face twisted in pain.
Sue had watched him. "Coats, you think it's so?" she asked despairingly.
"Yes," he said.
"What are you goin' to do?" she whispered.
Coats got up and gathered the letters together. "I'm going to find her first.... You go, Sue, and see if she's in sight anywhere. Then come and tell me."
He wanted those few minutes alone. He went up to his room and, from a shelf in the cupboard, took his pistol, loaded it and put it in his pocket. When Sue came back, he was again where she had left him, his hat on and binding the letters together. He put them in his pocket.
"I don't see her, Coats.... You have your hat—what are you goin' to do?" Sue could not rid herself of the terror his grim look inspired.
"I'm going to look for her—better I should talk to her where your father won't hear.... Then I'm going to Westmore."
Sue grew deadly pale. "Coats, don't you fight them! Don't, for my sake!"
Coats' lip curled. "Don't worry. I've got a word to say to Edward, and I'll guarantee he'll listen."
"If anything happens to you, I don't want to live," Sue said in despair.
Coats' face softened. He put his arm about her. "You're forgetting that we Pennimans are not cowards, Sue."
She looked at him with her heart in her eyes. "I'm just a woman when it comes to you, Coats—just a lovin' woman." In her agony of fear over him, Sue had thrown away the concealment of years; the truth stood clear, looked the man she loved straight in the eye.
It struck queerly across Coats' tense nerves, the revelation of a thing quite unexpected, but having nothing to do with the burning present. He answered to it only vaguely. "Do your part, then, Sue. Do what I tell you to do. Don't give way.... And not a word of all this to your father." He bent and kissed her, then, putting her aside, went out.
He went down to the woods, his eyes keen and searching beneath his lowered brows. He saw no sign of Ann, either in the open or at the edge of the woods, and went straight on, looking about him, but not pausing, until he came out on the Back Road. He had not expected to find Ann in the woods. In one of his first notes to Ann, Garvin had appointed Crest Cave as an afternoon meeting-place; Coats had made a mental note of it.
He followed the Back Road until he stood clear of the woods, then looked about him. There was no sign of any one. As far as he could see, in every direction, fields and woods and brilliant evening sunshine; cattle in the pastures below, but not a human being in sight.
Coats looked at the warm teeming country, then up at the looming Mine Banks, over which hung a faint blue haze, the mist from innumerable ore-pits which the spring rains had filled to overflowing. "The hell-hole of the Westmores," he always called it in his own mind.
Then he struck off for it, directly across country, his vigorous stride carrying him along rapidly.