October came, with its red and golden trees, its brown pastures, its crisp nights and its hazy, smoky days. Fires were kindled in old-fashioned fireplaces; out in the farmyards busy housewives were making soap and apple butter in great iron kettles suspended over blazing logs; wagons laden with wheat and corn rumbled through country roads and up to the Windom elevator; stores were thriving under the spur of new-found money; the school was open, Main Street childless for hours at a time,—and Courtney Thane was still in Windomville.
He was a frequent, almost constant visitor at the red-brick house on the knoll. The gossips were busy. Sage winks were exchanged when Alix and he were seen together in her automobile; many a head was lowered so that its owner might peer quizzically over the upper rims of spectacles as they strolled past the postoffice and other public porches; convicting feminine smiles pursued the young man up the lane leading to Alix's home. There were some doubtful head-shakings, but in the main Windomville was rather well pleased with the prospect. Opinion, though divided, was almost unanimous: few there were who held that "nothin' would come of it."
Charlie Webster was one of the latter. His early intimacy with the ex-aviator had suffered a decided slump. His jovial attempts to plague the young man about his intentions met with the frostiest reception. Indeed, on one memorable occasion, the object of these good-natured banterings turned upon him coldly and said:
"See here, Webster, you're getting to be considerable of a nuisance. Cut it out, will you? You are not half as funny as you think you are. I'm pretty well fed up with your freshness—understand?"
It was a slap in the face that Charlie DID understand, and one he never forgot. As the rebuke was uttered on the porch of Dowd's Tavern and in the presence of Flora Grady, Maude Baggs Pollock and one or two others, the sting was likely to endure.
While Courtney's manner had undergone a decided change so far as nearly all of his fellow-lodgers were concerned, he still maintained a very friendly and courteous attitude toward the Dowd sisters and Mr. and Mrs. Pollock. For some reason known only to himself,—(but doubtless plain to the reader of this narrative),—he devoted most of his attention to the editor and his wife and to the two spinsters who were such close friends of the young lady of his dreams. As for the others, he made no attempt to conceal his disdain.
It was not long before the Irish in Miss Flora Grady was aroused. She announced to Miss Angie Miller that he was a "stuck up smart-Aleck," and sooner or later he'd get a piece of her mind that would "take him down a couple of pegs." Miss Miller, while in complete accord with Flora's views, was content to speak of him as "supercilious."
Charlie Webster grew more and more thoughtful under the weight of indignity.
"I certainly missed my guess as to that feller," he remarked to Doc Simpson and Hatch one day. "I had him sized up as a different sort of feller altogether. Why, up to a couple of weeks ago, he was as nice as pie to all of us,—'specially to me. He used to come over to my office and sit around for hours, chatting and smoking cigarettes and joshing like a good feller. But I've got it all figgered out, boys. He was simply workin' me. He always led the conversation round to Alix Crown, and then, like a dern' fool, I'd let him pump me dry. Why, there's nothing he don't know about that girl,—and all through me. Now he's got in with her,—just as he wanted to all along,—and what does he do but tie a can to me and give me a swift kick. And there's another thing I might as well say to you fellers while I'm about it. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately,—sort of putting things together in my mind,—and it's my opinion that he is one of the blamedest liars I've ever come across."
He paused to see the effect of this startling assertion. Hatch removed the corn-cob pipe from between his lips and laconically observed:
"Well, I know of one lie he's told."
"You do?"
"Remember him telling us at the supper table one night that a German submarine fired three torpedoes at the steamer he was coming home on with a lot of other sick and wounded? Well, a couple of nights ago he forgot himself and made the statement that he was in a hospital in England for nearly two months after the armistice was signed."
"By gosh, that's right," cried Doc Simpson.
"And what's more," went on Hatch, "wasn't he serving in the British Army? What I'd like to know is this: why would England be sending her wounded soldiers over to America? You can bet your life England wasn't doing anything like that."
"There's another thing that don't sound just right to me," said Charlie, his brow furrowed. "He says one night he got lost driving his ambulance and the first thing he knew he was away behind the German lines. I may be wrong, but I've always thought both sides had trenches. What puzzles me is how the dickens he managed to drive that Ford of his over the German trenches without noticin' 'em,—and back again besides."
"Well," said Doc, desiring to be fair, "it seems to be the habit of soldiers to lie a little. That's where we get the saying, 'he lied like a trooper.' I know my Uncle George lied so much about what he did in the Civil War that he ought to have had twenty pensions instead of one. Still, there's a big change in Court, as you say, Charlie. I wonder if Alix is really keen about him. He's up there all the time, seems to me. Or is she just stringin' him?"
Charlie frowned darkly. "He's a slick one. I—I'd hate to see Alix fall for him."
The sententious Mr. Hatch: "The smartest women in the world lose their heads over a feller as soon as they find out he's in poor health."
"He's in perfect health," exploded Charlie.
"I know,—but that don't prevent him from coughing and holding his side and walking with a cane, does it? That's what gets 'em, Charlie. The quickest way to get a girl interested is to let her think you're in need of sympathy."
"It don't work when you're as fat as I am," said Charlie gloomily.
Conscious or unconscious of the varying opinions that were being voiced behind his back, Courtney went confidently ahead with his wooing. He congratulated himself that he was in Alix's good graces. If at times she was perplexingly cool,—or "upstage," as he called it,—he flattered himself that he knew women too well to be discouraged by these purely feminine manifestations.
This was a game he knew how to play. The time was not yet ripe for him to abandon his well-calculated air of indifference. That he was desperately in love with her goes without saying. If at the outset of his campaign he was inspired by the unworthy motive of greed, he was now consumed by an entirely different desire,—the desire to have her for his own, even though she were penniless.
Those whirlwind tactics that had swept many another girl off her feet were not to be thought of here. Alix was different. She was not an impressionable, hair-brained flapper, such as he had come in contact with in past experiences. Despite her sprightly, thoroughly up-to-the-moment ease of manner, and an air of complete sophistication, she was singularly old-fashioned in a great many respects. While she was bright, amusing, gay, there was back of it all a certain reserve that forbade familiarity,—sufficient, indeed, to inspire unexampled caution on his part. She invited friendship but not familiarity; she demanded respect rather than admiration.
He was not slow in arriving at the conclusion that she knew men. She knew how to fence with them. He was distinctly aware of this. Other men, of course, had been in love with her; other men no doubt had dashed their hopes upon the barrier in their haste to seize the treasure. It was inconceivable that one so lovely, so desirable, so utterly feminine should fail to inspire in all men that which she inspired in him. The obvious, therefore, was gratifying. Granted that she had had proposals, here was the proof that the poor fools who laid their hearts at her feet had gone about it clumsily. Such would not be the case with him. Oh no! He would bide his time, he would watch for the first break in her enchanted armour,—and then the conquest!
There were times, of course, when he came near to catastrophe,—times when he was almost powerless to resist the passion that possessed him. These were the times when he realized how easy it would have been to join that sad company of fools in the path behind her.
He had no real misgivings. He felt confident of winning. True, her moods puzzled him at times, but were they not, after all, omens of good fortune? Were they not indications of the mysterious changes that were taking place in her? And the way was clear. So far as he knew, there was no other man. Her heart was free. What more could he ask?
On her side, the situation was not so complex. He came from the great outside world, he brought the outside world to the lonely little village on the bank of the river. He was bright, amusing, cultivated,—at least he represented cultivation as it exists in open places and on the surface of a sea called civilization. He possessed that ineffable quality known as "manner." The spice of the Metropolis clung to him. He could talk of the things she loved,—not as she loved the farm and village and the home of her fathers, but of the things she loved because they stood for that which represented the beautiful in intellect, in genius, in accomplishment. The breath of far lands and wide seas came with him to the town of Windomville, grateful and soothing, and yet laden with the tang of turmoil, the spice of iniquity.
Alix was no Puritan. She had been out in the world, she had come up against the elemental in life, she had learned that God in His wisdom had peopled the earth with saints and sinners,—and she was tolerant of both! In a word, she was broad-minded. She had been an observer rather than a participant in the passing show. She had absorbed knowledge rather than experience.
The conventions remained unshaken so far as she was personally concerned. In others she excused much that she could not have excused in herself,—for the heritage of righteousness had come down to her through a long line of staunch upholders.
She loved life. She craved companionship. She could afford to gratify her desires. Week-ends found two or more guests at her home,—friends from the city up the river. Sometimes there were visitors from Chicago, Indianapolis and other places,—girls she had met at school, or in her travels, or in the canteen. Early in the war her house was headquarters for the local Red Cross workers, the knitters, the bandage rollers, and so on, but after the entry of the United States into the conflict, most of her time was spent away from Windomville in the more intense activities delegated to women.
She attended the theatre when anything worth while came to the city, frequently taking one or two of the village people with her. Once, as she was leaving the theatre, she heard herself discussed by persons in the aisle behind.
"That's Alix Crown. I'll tell you all about her when we get home. Her father and mother were murdered years ago and buried in a well or something. I wish she'd turn around so that you could get a good look at her face. She's quite pretty and—"
And she had deliberately turned to face the speaker, who never forgot the cold, unwavering stare that caused her to lower her own eyes and her voice to trail off into a confused mumble.
Alix was a long time in recovering from the distress caused by the incident. She avoided the city for weeks. It was her first intimation that she was an object of unusual interest to people, that she was the subject of whispered comment, that she was a "character" to be pointed out to strangers. Even now, with the sting of injury and injustice eased by time and her own good sense, there still remained the disturbing consciousness that she was,—for want of a milder term,—a "marked woman."
She was thoroughly acquainted with every detail connected with the extensive farms and industries that had been handed down to her. A great deal of her time was devoted to an intelligent and comprehensive interest in the management of the farms. She was never out of touch with conditions. Her tenants respected and admired her; her foremen and superintendents consulted with her as they would not have believed it possible to consult with a woman; her bankers deferred to her.
She would have laughed at you if you had suggested to her that she had more than a grain of business-sense, or ability, or capacity, and yet she was singularly far-sighted and capable,—without being in the least aware of it. Her pleasures were not allowed to interfere with her obligations as a landlord, a citizen and a taxpayer. A certain part of each day was set aside for the business of the farms. She repaired bright and early to the little office at the back of the house where her grandfather had worked before her, and there she struggled over accounts, reports, claims,—and her cheque-book. And like her grim, silent grandsire, she "rode" the lanes that twined through field and timber,—only she rode gaily, blithely, with sunshine in her heart. The darkness was always behind her, never ahead.
Courtney undoubtedly had overcome the prejudice his visit to Quill's Window had inspired in her. They never spoke of that first encounter. It was as a closed book between them. He had forgotten the incident. At any rate, he had put it out of his mind. He sometimes wondered, however, if she would ever invite him to accompany her to the top of that forbidden hill. In their rambles they had passed the closed gate on more than one occasion. The words, "No Trespass," still met the eye. Some day he would suggest an adventure: the descent to the cave in quest of treasure! The two of them! Rope ladder and all! It would be great fun!
He was assiduous in his efforts to amuse her house guests. He laid himself out to be entertaining. If he resented the presence of young men from the city, he managed to conceal his feelings remarkably well. On one point he was firm: he would not accompany her on any of her trips to the city. Once she had invited him to motor in with her to a tea, and another time she offered to drive him about the city and out to the college on a sight-seeing tour. It was then that he said he was determined to obey "doctor's orders." No city streets for him! Even SHE couldn't entice him! He loved every inch of this charming, restful spot,—every tree and every stone,—and he would not leave it until the time came for him to go away forever.
He was very well satisfied with the fruits of this apparently ungracious refusal. She went to the city less frequently than before, and only when it was necessary. This, he decided, was significant. It could have but one meaning.
Her dog, Sergeant, did not like him.
One chilly, rainy afternoon in mid-October Courtney appeared at the house on the knoll half an hour earlier than was his custom. Alix was expecting friends down from the city for tea. From the hall where he was removing his raincoat he had a fair view through an open door of the north end of the long living-room. Logs were blazing merrily in the fireplace. Alix was standing before the fire, tearing a sheet of paper into small pieces. She was angry. She threw rather than dropped the bits of paper into the flames,—unmistakably she was furious. He waited a moment before entering the room. Her back was toward him. She turned in response to his discreet cough. Even in the dim light that filtered in from the grey, leaden day outside, he could detect the heightened colour in her cheeks, and as he advanced he saw that her eyes were wet with illy-suppressed tears. She bit her lip and forced a smile.
He possessed the philanderer's tact. There was nothing in his manner to indicate that he noticed anything unusual. He greeted her cheerfully and then, affecting a shiver, passed on to spread his hands out over the fire.
"This is great," he exclaimed, his back to her. He was giving her a chance to compose herself. "Nothing like a big log fire to warm the cockles of your heart,—although it isn't my heart that needs warming. Moreover, I don't know what cockles are. I must look 'em up in the dictionary. Come here, Sergeant,—there's a good dog! Come over and get warm, old fellow. Toast your cockles. By Jove, Miss Crown, isn't he ever going to make friends with me?"
"They are 'one man' dogs, Mr. Thane," she replied. "Come, Sergeant,—if you're going to be impolite you must leave the room. Excuse me a moment. Sergeant! Do you hear me, sir? Come!"
The big grey dog followed her slowly, reluctantly, from the room. Courtney heard her going up the stairs.
"That nasty brute is going to take a bite out of me some day," he muttered under his breath. "Fat chance I'd have to kiss her with that beast around."
He heard the closing of an upstairs door. His thoughts were still of the police dog.
"There's one thing sure," he said to himself. "That dog and I can't live in the same house." Then his thoughts rose swiftly to that upstairs room,—he was sure it was a dainty, inviting room,—to picture her before the mirror erasing all visible evidence of agitation. He found himself wondering what it was that caused this exhibition of temper. A letter? Of course,—a letter. A letter that contained something she resented, something that infuriated her. A personal matter, not a business one. She would not have treated a business matter in such a way. He knew her too well for that. The leaping flames gave no hint of what they had destroyed. Was it an anonymous letter? Had it anything to do with him?
His eye fell upon several envelopes on the library table. After a moment's hesitation and a quick glance toward the door, he strode over to inspect them. They were all unopened. Two were postmarked Chicago, one New York; on the others the postmarks were indistinct. The handwriting was feminine on most of them. A narrow, folded slip of paper lay a little detached from the letters. He picked it up and quickly opened it. It proved to be a check on a Philadelphia bank. A glance sufficed to show that it was for two hundred and fifty dollars, payable to the order of Alix Crown, and signed "D. W. Strong."
The door upstairs was opened and closed. Replacing the bit of paper on the table, he resumed his position before the fire. Quite a different Alix entered the room a few seconds later. She was smiling, her eyes were soft and tranquil. All traces of the passing tempest were gone.
"Sit down,—draw this big chair up to the fire,—do. It IS raw and nasty today, isn't it? I think the Mallons are coming out in an open car. Isn't it too bad?"
"Bad for the curls," he drawled. "Mind if I smoke?"
"Certainly not. Don't you know that by this time?"
He had drawn a chair up beside hers. Her reply afforded him a very definite sense of elation.
"It seems to me that the world is getting to be a rather heavenly place to live in," he said, and there was a trace of real feeling in his voice. "You don't mind my saying it's entirely due to you, do you?"
"Not in the least," she said calmly. "Charlie Webster once paraphrased a time-honoured saying. He said 'In the fall an old man's fancy slightly turns to thoughts of comfort.' I sha'n't deprive my fireplace and my big armchair of their just due by believing a word of what you say."
He tossed the match into the fire, drew in a deep breath of smoke, settled himself comfortably in the chair before exhaling, and then remarked:
"But I don't happen to be an old man. I happen to be a rather young one,—and a very truthful one to boot."
"Do you always tell the truth?"
He grinned. "More or less always," was his reply. "I never lie in October."
"And the other eleven months of the year?"
"Oh, I merely change the wording. In July I say 'I never lie in July,'—and so on throughout the twelve-month. I don't slight a single month. By the by, I hope I didn't pop in too far ahead of time this afternoon. You asked me to come at four. I'm half an hour early. Were you occupied with anything—"
"I was not busy. A few letters,—but they can wait." He caught the faint shadow of a cloud as it flitted across her eyes. "They are all personal,—nothing important in any of them, I am sure."
She shot a quick glance at the folded check and, arising abruptly, went over to the table where, with apparent unconcern, she ran through the little pile of letters. He saw her pick up the check and thrust it into the pocket of her sport skirt. Then she returned to the fireplace. The cloud was on her brow again as she stared darkly into the crackling flames. He knew now that it was Strong's letter she had destroyed in anger. He would have given much to know what the man she despised so heartily had written to her. If he could have seen that brief note he would have read:
I enclose my checque for two-fifty. If all goes well I hope to clean up the indebtedness by the first of the year. In any case, I am sure it can be accomplished by early spring. You may thank the flu for my present prosperity. It has been pretty bad here in the East again, although not so virulent as before. Please credit me with the amount. This leaves me owing you five hundred dollars. It should not take long to wipe it out entirely, interest and all.
Sincerely yours,
Courtney eyed her narrowly as she stood for a moment looking into the fire before resuming her seat. He realized that her thoughts were far away and that they were not pleasant.
"It's queer," he said presently, "that you have never learned to smoke."
She started slightly at the sound of his voice. As she turned to sit down, he went on:
"Almost every girl I know smokes. I will not say that I like to see it,—especially in restaurants and all that sort of thing,—but it's rather jolly if there's a nice, cosy fire like this,—see what I mean? Sort of intimate, and friendly, and—soothing. Don't you want to try one now?"
"Thank you, no. If it weren't so shocking, I think I should like to learn how to smoke a pipe,—but I suppose that isn't to be thought of. Somehow I feel that a pipe might be a pal, a good old stand-by, or even a relative,—something to depend upon in all sorts of weather, fair and foul. I've noticed that the men on the place who smoke pipes appear to be contented and jolly and good humoured,—and efficient. Yes, I think I should like to smoke a pipe."
"Would you like me better if I cut out the cigarettes, and took up the pipe of peace—and contentment?" he inquired thoughtfully.
"I doubt it," she replied, smiling. "I can't imagine you smoking a pipe."
"Is that supposed to be flattering or scornful?"
"Neither. It is an impression, that's all."
He frowned slightly. "I used to smoke a pipe,—in college, you know. Up to my sophomore year. It was supposed to indicate maturity. But I don't believe I'd have the courage to tackle one now, Miss Crown. Not since that little gas experience over there. You see, my throat isn't what it was in those good old freshman days. Pipe smoke,—you may even say tobacco smoke, for heaven only knows what these cigarettes are made of,—pipe smoke is too strong. My throat is so confounded sensitive I—well, I'd probably cough my head off. That beastly gas made a coward of me, I fear. You've no idea what it does to a fellow's throat and lungs. If I live to be a thousand years old, I'll never forget the tortures I went through for weeks,—yes, ages. Every breath was like a knife cutting the very—But what a stupid fool I am! Distressing you with all these wretched details. Please forgive me."
She was looking at him wonderingly. "You are so different from the poor fellows I saw in New York," she said slowly. "I mean the men who had been gassed and shell-shocked. I saw loads of them in the hospitals, you know,—and talked with them. I was always tremendously affected by their silence, their moodiness, their unwillingness to speak of what they had been through. The other men, the ones who had lost legs or arms or even their eyes,—were as a rule cheerful and as chatty as could be,—oh, how my heart used to ache for them,—but the shell-shock men and the men who had been gassed, why, it was impossible to get them to talk about themselves. I have seen some of them since then. They are apparently well and strong, and yet not one word can you get out of them about their sufferings. You are almost unique, Mr. Thane. I am glad you feel disposed to talk about it all. It is a good sign. It—"
"I didn't say much about it at first," he interrupted hurriedly. "Moreover, Miss Crown," he went on, "a lot of those chaps,—the majority of them, in fact,—worked that dodge for all it was worth. It was a deliberate pose with them. They had to act that way or people wouldn't think they'd been hurt at all. Bunk, most of it."
"I don't believe that, Mr. Thane. I saw too many of them. The ones with whom I came in contact certainly were not trying to deceive anybody. They were in a pitiable condition, every last one of them,—pitiable."
"I do not say that all of them were shamming,—but I am convinced that a great many of them were."
"The doctors report that the shell-shock cases—"
"Ah, the doctors!" he broke in, shrugging his shoulders. "They were all jolly good fellows. All you had to do was to even hint that you'd been knocked over by a shell that exploded two hundred yards away and—zip! they'd send you back for repairs. As for myself, the only reason I didn't like to talk about my condition at first was because it hurt my throat and lungs. It wasn't because I was afflicted with this heroic melancholy they talk so much about. I was mighty glad to be alive. I couldn't see anything to mope about,—certainly not after I found out I wasn't going to die."
"I daresay there were others who took it as you did. I wish there could have been more."
He hesitated a moment before speaking again. Then he hazarded the question:
"What does your friend, Dr. Strong, have to say about the general run of such cases?"
"I don't know. I have not seen Dr. Strong since the war ended."
He looked mildly surprised. "Hasn't he been home since the war?"
"I believe so. I was away at the time."
"How long was he in France?"
"He went over first in 1916 and again in the fall of 1917, and remained till the end of the war. His mother is here with me, you know."
"Yes, I know. By Jove, I envy him one thing,—lucky dog." She remained silent. "You were playmates, weren't you?"
"Yes," she said, lifting her chin slightly.
"Well, that's why I envy him. To have been your playmate,—Why, I envy him every minute of his boyhood. When I think of my own boyhood and how little there was to it that a real boy should have, I—I—confound it, I almost find myself hating chaps like Strong, chaps who lived in the country and had regular pals, and girl sweethearts, and went fishing and hunting, and played hookey as it ought to be played, and grew up with something fine and sweet and wholesome to look back upon,—and to have had you for a playmate,—maybe a sweetheart,—you in short frocks, with your hair in pigtails, barefooted in summertime, running—"
She interrupted him. "Your imagination is at fault there, Mr. Thane," she said, smiling once more. "I never went barefooted in my life."
"At any rate, HE did. And he played all sorts of games with you; he—"
"My impression of David Strong is that he was a boy's boy," she broke in rather stiffly. "His games were with the boys of the town,—and they were rough games. Football, baseball, shinney, circus,—things like that."
"I don't mean sports, Miss Crown. I was thinking of those wonderful boy and girl games,—such as 'playing house,' 'getting married,' 'hide-and-go-seek,'—all that sort of thing."
"Yes, I know," she admitted. "We often played at getting married, and we had very large but inanimate families, and we quarrelled like real married people, and I used to cry and take my playthings home, and he used to stand outside our fence and make faces at me till I hated him ferociously. But all that was when we were very small, you see."
"And as all such things turn out, I suppose he grew up and went off and got married to some one else."
"He is not married, Mr. Thane."
"Well, for that matter, neither are you," said he, leaning forward, his eyes fixed intently on hers. She did not flinch. "I wonder just how you feel toward him today, Miss Crown."
She was incapable of coquetry. "We are not the best of friends," she said quietly. "Now, if you please, let us talk of something else. Did I tell you that an old Ambulance man is coming down for a day or two nest week? A Harvard man who lives in Chicago. His sister and I went to New York together to take our chances there on getting over to France. I think I've told you about her,—Mary Blythe?"
"Blythe?" repeated Courtney thoughtfully. "Blythe. Seems to me I heard of a chap named Blythe over there in the Ambulance, but I don't remember whether I ran across him anywhere or not. He may have been after my time, however. I was with the Ambulance in '15 and the early part of '16, you see."
"Addison Blythe. He was afterwards a Field Artillery captain. I've known Mary Blythe for years, but I know him very slightly. He went direct from Harvard to France, you see."
"What section was he with?"
"I don't know. I only know he was at Pont-a-Mousson for several months. You were there too at one time, I remember. I've heard him speak of the Bois le Pretre. You may have been there at the same time."
"Hardly possible. I should have known him in that case. My section was sent up to Bar le Duc just before the first big Verdun battle."
"Why, he was all through the first battle of Verdun. His section was transferred from Pont-a-Mousson at an hour's notice. Were there more than one section at Pont-a-Mousson?"
"I don't know how they were fixed after I left. You see, I was trying to get into the aviation end of the game along about that time. I was in an aviation camp for a couple of months, but went back to the Ambulance just before the Verdun scrap. They slapped me into another section, of course. I used to see fellows from my own section occasionally, but I don't recall any one named Blythe. He probably was sent up while I was at Toul,—or it may have been during the time I was with a section in the Vosges. I was up near Dunkirk too for a while,—only for a few weeks. When did you say he was coming?"
"Next Tuesday. They are stopping off on their way to attend a wedding in Louisville. You two will have a wonderful time reminiscing."
"Blythe. I'll rummage around in my memory and see if I can place him. There was a fellow named Bright up there at one time,—at least I got the name as Bright. It may have been Blythe. I'll be tickled to death to meet him, Miss Crown."
"You will love Mary Blythe. She is a darling."
"I may be susceptible, Miss Crown, but I am not inconstant," said he, with a gallant bow.
She was annoyed with herself for blushing.
"Will you throw another log or two on the fire, please?" she said, arising. "I think I hear a car coming up the drive. The poor Mallons will be chilled to the bone."
He smiled to himself as he took the long hickory logs from the wood box and placed them carefully on the fire. He had seen the swift flood of colour mount to her cheeks, and the odd little waver in her eyes before she turned them away. She was at the window, looking out, when he straightened himself and gingerly brushed the wood dust from his hands. Instead of joining her, he remained with his back to the fire, his feet spread apart, his hands in his coat pockets, comforting himself with the thought that she was wondering why he had not followed her. It was, he rejoiced, a very clever bit of strategy on his part. He waited for her to turn away from the window and say, with well-assumed perplexity: "I was sure I heard a car, Mr. Thane."
And that is exactly what she did say after a short interval, adding:
"It must have been the wind in the chimney."
"Very likely," he agreed.
She remained at the window. He held his position before the fire.
"If I were just a plain damned fool," he was saying to himself, "I'd rush over there and spoil everything. It's too soon,—too soon. She's not ready yet,—not ready."
Alix, looking out across the porch into the grey drizzle that drenched the lawn, thrust her hand into her skirt pocket and, clutching the bit of paper in her fingers, crumpled it into a small ball. Her eyes were serene, however, as she turned away and walked back to the fireplace.
"I don't believe they are coming, after all. I think they might have telephoned," she said, glancing up at the old French ormula clock on the mantelpiece. "Half-past four. We will wait a few minutes longer and then have tea."
His heart gave a sudden thump. Was it possible—but no! She would not stoop to anything like that. The little thrill of exultation departed as quickly as it came.
"Tire trouble, perhaps," he ventured.
Tea was being brought in when the belated guests arrived. Courtney, spurred by the brief vision of success ahead, was never in better form, never more entertaining, never so well provided with polite cynicisms. Later on, when he and Alix were alone and he was putting on his raincoat in the hall, she said to him impulsively:
"I don't know what I should have done without you, Mr. Thane. You were splendid. I was in no mood to be nice or agreeable to anybody."
"Alas!" he sighed. "That shows how unobserving I am. I could have sworn you were in a perfectly adorable mood."
"Well, I wasn't," she said stubbornly. "I was quite horrid."
"Has anything happened to—to distress you, Miss Crown?" he inquired anxiously. His voice was husky and a trifle unsteady. "Can't you tell me? Sometimes it helps to—"
"Nothing has happened," she interrupted nervously. "I was—just stupid, that's all."
"When am I to see you again?" he asked, after a perceptible pause. "May I come tonight?"
"Not tonight," she said, shaking her head.
She gave no reason,—nothing more than the two little words,—and yet he went away exulting. He walked home through the light, gusty rain, so elated that he forgot to use his cane,—and he had limped quite painfully earlier in the afternoon, complaining of the dampness and chill. He had the habit of talking to himself when walking alone in the darkness. He thought aloud:
"She wants to be alone,—she wants to think. She has suddenly realized. She is frightened. She doesn't understand. She is bewildered. She doesn't want to see me tonight. Bless her heart! I'll bet my head she doesn't sleep a wink. And tomorrow? Tomorrow I shall see her. But not a word, not a sign out of me. Not tomorrow or next day or the day after that. Keep her thinking, keep her guessing, keep her wondering whether I really care. Pretty soon she'll realize how miserable she is,—and then!"
A. Lincoln Pollock was full of news at supper that evening. Courtney, coming in a little late,—in fact, Miss Margaret Slattery already had removed the soup plates and was beginning to wonder audibly whether a certain guy thought she was a truck-horse or something like that,—found the editor of the Sun anticipating by at least twelve hours the forthcoming issue of his paper. He was regaling his fellow-boarders with news that would be off the press the first thing in the morning,—having been confined to the composing-room for the better part of a week,—and he was enjoying himself. Charlie Webster once made the remark that "every time the Sun goes to press, Link Pollock acts for all the world like a hen that's just laid an egg, he cackles so."
"I saw Nancy Strong this morning and she was telling me about a letter she had from David yesterday. He wants her to pack up and come to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, to live with him. He says he'll take a nice little apartment, big enough for the two of 'em, if she'll only come. She can't make up her mind what to do. She's so fond of Alix she don't see how she can desert her,—at least, not till she gets married,—and yet she feels she owes it to her son to go and make a home for him. Every once in a while Alix makes her a present of a hundred dollars or so,—once she gave her three hundred in cold, clean cash,—and actually loves her as if she was her own mother. Nancy's terribly upset. She is devoted to Alix, and at the same time she's devoted to her son. She seemed to want my advice, but of course I couldn't give her any. It's a thing she's got to work out for herself. I couldn't advise her to leave Alix in the lurch and I couldn't advise her to turn her back on her only son,—could I?"
"How soon does David want her to come?" inquired Miss Molly Dowd.
"Before Christmas, I believe. He wants her to be with him on Christmas day."
"Well, it would work out very nicely," said Mrs. Pollock, "if Alix would only get married before that time."
"I guess that's just what Nancy is kind of hoping herself," stated Mr. Pollock. "It would simplify everything. Of course, when she told Alix about David's letter and what he wanted her to do, Alix was mighty nice about it. She told Nancy to go by all means, her place was with her son if he needed her, and she wouldn't stand in the way for the world. Nancy says she had about made up her mind to go, but changed it last night. She was telling me about sneaking up to Alix's bedroom door and listening. Alix was crying, sort of sobbing, you know. That settled it with Nancy,—temporarily at any rate. Now she's up in the air again, and don't know what to do. She's gone and told Alix she won't leave her, but all the time she keeps wondering if Davy can get along without her in that great big city, surrounded by all kinds of perils and traps and pitfalls,—night and day. Evil women and—"
"Has Alix said anything to you about it, Mr. Thane?" inquired Maude Baggs Pollock.
"Not a word," replied Courtney, secretly irritated by the discovery that Alix had failed to take him into her confidence. "She doesn't discuss servant troubles with me."
"Oh, good gracious!" cried Miss Dowd. "If Nancy Strong ever heard you speak of her as a servant she'd—".
"She'd bite your head off," put in Miss Margaret Slattery. "Are you through with your soup, Mr. Thane?" Without waiting for an answer, she removed the plate with considerable abruptness.
"Are you angry with me, Margaret?" he asked, with a reproachful smile. His smile was too much for Margaret. She blushed and mumbled something about being sorry and having a headache.
"Say, Court, do you know this Ambulance feller that's coming to visit Alix next week?" asked the editor, with interest.
"You mean Addison Blythe? He was up at Pont-a-Mousson for a while, I believe, but it was after I had left for the Vosges section. I've heard of him. Harvard man."
"You two ought to have a good time when you get together," said Doc Simpson.
"I've got an item in the Sun about him this week, and next week we'll have an interview with him."
The usually loquacious Mr. Webster had been silent since Courtney's arrival. Now he lifted his voice to put a question to Miss Angie Miller, across the table.
"Did you write that letter I spoke about the other day, Angie?"
"Yes,—but there hasn't been time for an answer yet."
"Speaking about David Strong," remarked Mr. Pollock, "I'll never forget what he did when Mr. Windom gave him a silver watch for his twelfth birthday. Shows what a bright, progressive, enterprising feller he was even at that age. You remember, Miss Molly? I mean about his setting his watch fifteen minutes ahead the very day he got it."
Miss Molly smiled. "It WAS cute of him, wasn't it?"
"What was the idea?" inquired Mr. Hatch.
"So's he would know what time it was fifteen minutes sooner than anybody else in town," said Mr. Pollock.
"My, what a handsome boy he was," said Miss Angie Miller.
"Do you really think so?" cried Mrs. Pollock. "I never could see anything good looking about him,—except his physique. He has a splendid physique, but I never liked his face. It's so—so—well, so, raw-boned and all. I like smooth, regular features in a man. I—"
"Like mine," interjected the pudgy Mr. Webster, with a very serious face.
"David Strong has what I call a very rugged face," said Miss Miller. "I didn't say it was pretty, Maude."
"He takes a very good photograph," remarked Mr. Hatch. "Specially a side-view. I've got one side-view of him over at the gallery that makes me think of an Indian every time I look at it."
"Perhaps he has Indian blood in him," suggested Courtney, who was tired of David Strong.
"Well, every drop of blood he's got in him is red," said Charlie Webster; "so maybe you're right."
"The most interesting item in the Sun tomorrow," said Mr. Pollock, "is the word that young Cale Vick, across the river, has enlisted in the navy. He leaves on Monday for Chicago to join some sort of a training school, preparatory to taking a job on one of Uncle Sam's newest battleships,—the biggest in the world, according to his grandfather, who was in to see me a day or two ago. I have promised to send young Cale the Sun for a year without charging him a cent. Old man Brown says Amos Vick's daughter Rosabel isn't at all well. Something like walking typhoid, he says,—mopes a good deal and don't sleep well."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," exclaimed Courtney, real concern in his voice. "She was such a lively, light-hearted girl when I was over there. I can't imagine her moping. I hope Amos Vick isn't too close-fisted to consult a doctor. He's an awful tight-wad—believe me."
"Doctor can't seem to find anything really the matter ter with her, so old Cale Brown told me," said Mr. Pollock. "But don't you think it's fine of young Cale to join the navy, Court? Maybe your tales about the war put it into his head."
"It's more likely that he'd got fed up with life on a farm," said Courtney. "He'll find himself longing for the farm and mother a good many times before he's through with the navy."
Instead of going up to his room immediately after supper, as was his custom of late, Courtney joined the company in the "lounging room," so named by Mr. Webster who contended that no first-class hotel ever had such a thing as a parlour any more. The Misses Dowd, of course, called it the parlour, but as they continued to refer to the fireplace as the "chimney corner," one may readily forgive their reluctance to progress. Smoking was permitted in the "lounging room" during the fall and winter months only.
A steady rain was beating against the windows, and a rising wind made itself heard in feeble wails as it turned the dark corners of the Tavern. Presently it was to howl and shriek, and, as the rain ceased, to rattle the window shutters and the ancient, creaking sign that hung out over the porch,—for on the wind tonight came the first chill touch of winter.
"A fine night to be indoors," remarked Courtney in his most genial manner as he moved a rocking chair up to the fireplace and gallantly indicated to old Mrs. Nichols that it was intended for her.
"Ain't you going out tonight, Court?" inquired Mr. Hatch.
"Iron horses couldn't drag me out tonight," he replied. "Sit here, Mrs. Pollock. Doc, pull up that sofa for Miss Grady and Miss Miller. Let's have a chimney-corner symposium. Is symposium the right word, Miss Miller? Ah, I see it isn't. Well, I did my best. I could have got away with it in New York, but no chance here. And speaking of New York reminds me that at this very instant the curtains are going up and the lights are going down in half a hundred theatres,—and I don't mind confessing I'd like to be in one of them."
"That's one thing I envy New York for," said Mrs. Pollock. "Hand me my knitting off the table, Lincoln, please. I love the theatre. I could go every night—"
"You get tired of them after a little while, Maude," said Flora Grady, a trifle languidly. "Isn't that so, Mr. Thane?"
"Quite," agreed Courtney. "You get fed up with 'em."
"I remember once when I was in New York going six nights in succession, seeing all the best things on the boards at that time, and I give you my word," said Miss Grady, "they DID feed me up terribly."
"I know just what you mean, Miss Grady," said Courtney, without cracking a smile. "One gets so bored with the best plays in town. What one really ought to do, you know, is to go to the worst ones."
"I've always wanted to see 'The Blue Bird,'" said Miss Miller wistfully. "It's by Maeterlinck, Mr. Nichols."
Old Mr. Nichols looked interested. "You don't say so," he ejaculated. "Give me a good minstrel show,—that's what I like. Haverly's or Barlow, Wilson, Primrose & West, or Billy Emerson's or—say, did you ever see Luke Schoolcraft? Well, sir, there was the funniest end man I ever see. There used to be another minstrel man named,—er—lemme see,—now what was that feller's name? It begin with L, I think—or maybe it was W. Now—lemme—think. Go on talkin', the rest of you. I'll think of his name before bedtime." Whereupon the ancient Mr. Nichols relapsed into a profound state of thought from which he did not emerge until Mr. Webster shook his shoulder some fifteen or twenty minutes later and informed him that if he got any worse Mrs. Nichols would be able to hear him, and then she couldn't go 'round telling people that he slept just like a baby.
Courtney was in his element. He liked talking about the stage, and stage people. And on this night,—of all nights,—he wanted to talk, he wanted company. The clock on the mantel-piece struck ten and half-past and was close to striking eleven before any one made a move toward retiring,—excepting Mr. and Mrs. Nichols who had gone off to bed at eight-thirty. The Misses Dowd had joined the little company in the "parlour." He discussed books with Mrs. Pollock and Miss Miller, fashions with Miss Grady, politics with Mr. Pollock,—(agreeing with the latter on President Wilson),—art with Mr. Hatch and the erudite Miss Miller, the drama with every one.
Now, Courtney Thane knew almost nothing about books, and even less about pictures. He possessed, however, a remarkable facility when it came to discussing them. He belonged to that rather extensive class of people who thrive on ignorance. If you wanted to talk about Keats or Shelley, he managed to give you the impression that he was thoroughly familiar with both,—though lamenting a certain rustiness of memory at times. He could talk intelligently about Joseph Conrad, Arnold Bennet, Bernard Shaw, Galsworthy, Walpole, Mackenzie, Wells and others of the modern English school of novelists,—that is to say, he could differ or agree with you on almost anything they had written, notwithstanding the fact that he had never read a line by any one of them. He professed not to care for Thomas Hardy's "Jude the Obscure," though nothing could have been more obscure to him than the book itself or the author thereof, and agreed with the delightful Mrs. Pollock that "The Mayor of Casterbridge" was an infinitely better piece of work than "Tess of the D'Urbervilles." As for the American writers, he admitted a shameful ignorance about them.
"Of course, I read Scott when I was a boy,—I was compelled to do so, by the way,—but as for the others I am shockingly unfamiliar with them. Ever since I grew up I've preferred the English novelists and poets, so I fear I—"
"I thought Scott was an English writer," put in Charlie Webster quietly.
"What Scott are you referring to, Charlie?" he asked indulgently.
"Why, Sir Walter Scott,—he wrote 'Ivanhoe,' you know."
"Well, I happen to be speaking of William Scott, the American novelist,—no doubt unknown to most of you. He was one of the old-timers, and I fancy has dropped out of the running altogether."
"Never heard of him," said Mr. Pollock, scratching his ear reflectively.
"Indigenous to New England, I fancy,—like the estimable codfish," drawled Courtney, and was rewarded by a wholesome Middle West laugh.
"What are those cabarets like?" inquired Mr. Hatch. He pronounced it as if he were saying cigarettes.
"Pretty rotten," said Thane.
"Are you fond of dancing, Mr. Thane?" inquired Mrs. Pollock. "I used to love to trip the light fantastic."
"I am very fond of dancing," said he, and then added with a smile: "Especially since the girls have taken to parking their corsets."
There was a shocked silence, broken by Miss Grady, who, as a dressmaker, was not quite so finicky about the word.
"What do you mean by parking?" she inquired.
"Same as you park an automobile," said he, enjoying the sensation he had created. "It's the fashion now, among the best families as well as the worst, for the girls when they go to dances to leave their corsets in the dressing rooms. Check 'em, same as you do your hat."
"Bless my soul," gasped Mr. Pollock. "Haven't they got any mothers?"
"Sure,—but the mothers don't know anything about it. You see, it's this way. We fellows won't dance with 'em if they've got corsets on,—so off they come."
"What's the world coming to?" cried the editor.
"You'd better ask where it's going to," said Charlie Webster.
"Do you go to the opera very often?" asked Miss Miller nervously.
He spoke rather loftily of the Metropolitan Opera House, and very lightly of the Metropolitan Museum,—and gave Charlie Webster a sharp look when that amiable gentleman asked him what he thought of the Metropolitan Tower.
But he was at home in the theatre. He told them just what Maude Adams and Ethel Barrymore were like, and Julia Marlowe, and Elsie Ferguson, and Chrystal Herne, and all the rest of them. He spoke familiarly of Mr. Faversham as "Favvy," of Mr. Collier as "Willie," of Mr. Sothern as "Ned," of Mr. Drew as "John," of Mr. Skinner as "Otis," of Mr. Frohman as "Dan."
And when he said good night and reluctantly wended his way to the room at the end of the hall, round the corner of which the fierce October gale shrieked derisively, he left behind him a group enthralled.
"Isn't he a perfect dear?" cried Mrs. Pollock, clasping her hands.
"The most erudite man I have ever met," agreed Miss Miller ecstatically. "Don't you think so, Mr. Hatch?"
Mr. Hatch was startled. "Oh,—er—yes, indeed. Absolutely!" he stammered, and then looked inquiringly at his finger nails. He hoped he had made the proper response.
Charlie Webster ambled over to one of the windows and peered out into the whistling night.
"It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good," said he sententiously.
"What do you mean by that, Charlie?" inquired Flora Grady, at his elbow.
"Well, if it had been a pleasant night he'd have been up at Alix Crown's instead of here," said Charlie.
"I see," said Flora, after a moment. "You mean the ill wind favoured Alix, eh?"
Charlie's round face was unsmiling as he stared hard at the fire.
"I wonder—" he began, and then checked the words.
"Don't you worry about Alix," said Flora. "She's nobody's fool."
"I wasn't thinking of Alix just then," said Charlie.
II — The following morning, Courtney went, as was his custom, to the postoffice. He had arranged for a lock-box there. His letters were not brought up to the Tavern by old Jim House, the handy-man.
The day was bright and clear and cold; the gale had died in the early morning hours. Alix Crown's big automobile was standing in front of the post-office, the engine running. Catching sight of it as he left the Tavern porch, he hastened his steps. He was a good two hundred yards away and feared she would be off before he could come up with her. As he drew near, he saw the lanky chauffeur standing in front of the drug store, chatting with one of the villagers.
Alix was in the post-office. As he passed the car, he slackened his pace and glanced over his shoulder into the tonneau. The side curtains were down. A low growl greeted him. He hastened on.
She was at the registry window.
"Hello!" he exclaimed, extending his hand and searching her face as he did so for signs of a sleepless night.
"Good morning," she responded cheerily. There was nothing in her voice, her eyes or her manner to indicate an even remotely disturbed state of mind. Her gaze met his serenely; the colour did not rush to her cheeks as he had fondly expected, nor did her eyes waver under the eager, intense gleam in his. He suddenly felt cheated.
"Where are you off to this morning?" he inquired.
"To town for the day. I have some business to attend to and some shopping to do. Would you like to come along?"
He was in a sulky mood.
"You know I hate the very thought of going to town," he said. Then, as she raised her eyebrows slightly, he made haste to add: "I'd go from one end of the desert of Sahara to the other with you, but—" shaking his head so solemnly that she laughed outright,—"not to the city. Just ask me to go to the Sahara with you and see how—"
"Haven't you had enough of No-Man's Land?" she cried merrily.
"It depends on what you'd call No-Man's Land," said he, and her gaze faltered at last. There was no mistaking his meaning. "Sometimes it is Paradise, you know," he went on softly.
Twice before she had seen the same look in his eyes, and both times she had experienced a strange sensation, as of the weakness that comes with ecstasy. There had been something in his eyes that seemed to caress her from head to foot, something that filled her with the most disquieting self-consciousness. Strange to say, it was not the ardent look of the love-sick admirer,—and she had not escaped such tributes,—nor the inquiring look of the adventurous married man. It was not soulful nor was it offensive. She reluctantly confessed to herself that it was warm and penetrating and filled her with a strange, delicious alarm.
She quickly withdrew her gaze and turned to the little window where Mrs. Pollock was making out her receipt for a registered package. She felt that she was cowardly, and the thought made her furious.
"Will it go out today, Mrs. Pollock?" she asked.
"This afternoon," replied the postmaster's wife and assistant. "Wasn't that a dreadful wind last night, Alix? I thought of you. You must have been frightened."
"I slept like a log through all of it," said Alix. "I love the wild night wind. It makes me feel so nice and comfy in bed. I was awfully tired last night. Thanks." Then turning to Courtney: "Sorry you will not go with me. I'll bear you in mind if I ever take a trip to the Sahara. Good-bye."
"Will you be at home tonight?" he asked, holding the door open for her to pass through.
"Yes," she replied composedly.
"I mean,—to me?"
"If you care to come," she said.
He did not accompany her to the car. The big grey-brown dog with his paws on the back of the front seat, was eagerly watching her approach.
She wore a long mole-skin coat and a smart little red turban. She had never looked so alluring to the young man who waited in the open door until the car started away.
"Close the door, please," called out Mrs. Pollock. "This isn't July, you know."
"So she slept like a log, did she?" muttered Courtney as he turned away from his lockbox with a letter. "Well, that's more than I did."
He glanced hurriedly through the letter, crumpled it up in his hand, and went jauntily up the street until he came to Hatch's Photograph Gallery. Entering, he gave the proprietor a hearty "good morning," and then drew a chair up before the low "sheet-iron stove" which heated the reception-room. Hatch was "printing" behind a partition, and their conversation was carried on at long range over the top. Presently the visitor drew the crumpled letter from his pocket, tore it into tiny pieces and cast it into the fire.
"Well, so long, Hatch. I'm off for a stroll in your crisp October air."