XTen minutes before breakfast time a knock at the hall door into her bedroom. She knew who it was that could not reach above the lower panels. "Come in!" she cried. Winchie entered—stopped short on the threshold."Good morning, Mr. Benedict Vaughan," said she, nodding at him by way of the mirror before which she was arranging her blouse at the neck. And he knew she was in a particularly fine humor."Have we got company? Who?" he asked."No. Why?""Aren't you going to take me for a walk after breakfast?""Of course. Don't we always go?""But it's raining.""I know.""Wouldn't it spoil that dress?""One'd think you had a sloven for a mother. Don't I always dress?""But that's a long skirt. And you're not putting on a shirt waist.""I'll change after breakfast.""Oh." This, however, contented him for a moment only. He eyed her critically as she made one insignificant little change after another, displaying a fussiness quite unusual. "I guess we're to have company—maybe.""Not at all. We never have people to breakfast. Whatareyou puzzling about?""Why didn't you put on the rain dress?"Courtney's delicate skin was showing more than its normal color. She shook her head laughingly at him—this child whose questions were forcing her to see a truth she was striving might and main to hide from herself. "You don't like this dress?""Yes, I like 'em all. It isn't the dress, exactly.""Then what is it?""I don't know. It's—something. It made me think company right away." The bar of music from the gong came floating up from below. "There's breakfast!" he exclaimed. "Are you 'most ready?""Quite," replied she, with a last look at profile, back hair and back of skirt with the aid of a hand glass."Maybe there'll be company," said Winchie as they started."I'm sure there'll be corn muffins," said she. "I smell them.""If there's hash, may I have a little?""A little."The descent was slow as Winchie's legs were short. She listened at every step, but could hear no sound of the kind she hoped. At the sitting-room door she glanced round. He was not there. "He's in the dining room," she said half to herself."Who, mamma?"Courtney startled, flushed. "What is it, dear?" she stammered guiltily."Has papa come?""No, I was thinking of Mr. Gallatin."Winchie drew his hand from hers. But she did not note it; for they were at the threshold of the dining room, and no one was there but Lizzie. She and Winchie sat, but she did not begin. A moment and she went to the telephone in the hall, took down the receiver of the private wire. Soon she heard in Basil's voice, "Hello. What is it?""It's—I.""Oh." Then silence."Did you hurt yourself last night?""No, not at all—thank you."In a constrained voice: "I thought you were coming to breakfast.""I felt it was better not to.""Oh!—good-by." And she hung up the receiver.Back in the dining room, uneasy under Winchie's serious steady gaze, she winced at his first remark: "Mr. Gallatin's company. There's you—and me—and the rest's company." After a pause, doubtfully: "Except papa. He's not quite company, I guess.""Do you want some of the hash?""You said there wasn't to be company.""Please! Please!" she cried. "You'll give me the headache.""You said I was always to say what I had in my brains."She bent over and kissed his hand. "And so you must.""Do you say everything that's in your brains?"She reddened again. "Everything Winchie'd understand," replied she. "After a while, when you grow up, you'll find a lot of things in your mind that it'd be of no use to say because nobody would understand—a lot of things you won't understand yourself.""There is those in, already," said he solemnly.She laughed. "No doubt."As she did not encourage him, he addressed himself to the hash, which was the kind he liked—brown and not too dry, and with the potatoes in little cubes. She poured her coffee, just touched one of Mazie's famous corn muffins as she slowly drank it, and gave herself up to the clear and calm daylight reflections that make comment so cynical and so severe upon what we do and say and think under the spell of night. She put on a waterproof hat and suit, leggings and boots, and issued forth for a two-hours' tramp with Winchie, who was dressed in the same fashion. When they got back at ten, she felt she was not the same woman as the one who had the adventure with the burglar on the balcony. She saw Winchie into dry clothes and settled at his rainy-day games—then out she went again. She walked rapidly along the path to the Smoke House; was soon rapping at the heavy iron door of the laboratory. She rapped again and again, turned away angry, was almost back at the edge of the shrubbery when she remembered that Richard had locked the laboratory, that Basil could not possibly be there.She hesitated, returned to the Smoke House, knocked at the door of the stairway leading up to the suite. No answer. She opened it, went upstairs. At the top she paused, called, "Anybody here?"Basil appeared in the doorway of the sitting room. He was in a dark-blue summer house suit, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. His face was very red; his eyes did not meet hers. "Lizzie straightened up and left about half an hour ago," said he."I came for a look round," explained she, admiring, without seeming to do so, his elegant and fashionable suit, the harmony of its color with his soft négligée shirt and flowing artist's tie. But then she always liked the way he dressed, the way he wore his clothes. "I come once a week in the morning to keep Lizzie up to the mark," she went on. "You're down in the laboratory at that time, so you haven't known what a model housekeeper I am."He did not stand aside for her to enter."I also had another reason," pursued she. "Please don't choke up the doorway. I'm coming in."He bowed, stood aside. She entered, glanced round the sober but not somber room with its walls, ceilings, floor, and furniture of walnut. It was a comfortable place and beautifully clean. "Jimmie attends to the floors?""Every week."She glanced into the adjoining room—kalsomined walls and ceiling, a white oak floor, a big chest of drawers, a big mirror, a big table and chair, a roomy brass bedstead. "Any complaints?""Everything perfectly satisfactory," he assured her."Now for my other business—my real business," said she, disposing herself in one of the window seats. "You may continue to stand, if you prefer; but it would please me better if you sat."He seated himself stiffly at the table desk. Her eyes were dancing with amusement at his overelaborated formality. It made him seem such a boy, made her feel vastly wiser and stronger and older than he."Why didn't you come to breakfast?" she inquired in a most businesslike tone."I made up my mind not to see you again until Vaughan returned.""And then, to go away?""Yes.""Why?""I prefer not to answer that.""Why not?""It's true Vaughan and I are not exactly friends. Still, I've been disloyal. I shall be so no more."She clasped her hands round one knee, looked at him with half closed eyes. "I do not like to be regarded as part of some one's else belongings," said she. "I belong to myself.""I wish to God you did!""You attach too much importance to what a woman says and does on impulse. I was much upset last night. I said and did things that seem absurd to me in daylight.""I am just as absurd, as you call it, in daylight as I was in moonlight."She flinched, controlled herself, made an impatient gesture. "Don't say those things, or you'll spoil everything," she half pleaded, half commanded.He strode to a window across the room from that in which she was sitting. "Everything is spoiled. I've simply got to go.""No." She shook her head slowly. "You will stay, and we'll be friends again, as before.""If I could only wipe out last night!" he cried, and he wheeled upon her.She caught her breath. "Do you mean that?" she asked impulsively.He stopped short, faced her, but his eyes were down. "No, I don't," replied he. "And that's the devil of it.""Why?""If I honestly regretted last night, I could stay.""Why do you lie to yourself?" she asked, crossing the room toward him. "You have no real intention of going."His gaze sank. "I shall try to go," he muttered.She laughed—after she had returned to the safer distance of the window seat. "What a passion for hypocrisy you men have. 'I shall try.' You hope that last tiny rag of a remnant will cover your real purpose.""You think I am a dishonorable dog. I don't wonder at it.""No, I don't. But I do think you are taking yourself entirely too seriously. You don't want to go, do you? And I don't wish you to go. And Richard doesn't want you to go.""He'd compel it if he knew.""But he doesn't know. Maybe, if I knew some things about you, I'd want you to go. Maybe, if you knew me thoroughly, you'd be eager to go. As it is, we all want things to stay as they are.""Last night was a warning.""Yes," she hastened to assent. "Let's heed it. Let's go back to friendship and not wander. My friend, you're letting your mind hang over just one subject, just one side of the relations of men and women. Isn't there more to me than—that?""Courtney!" he protested."Then let's be friends. Let's put aside what we can't have. Let's take and enjoy what we can. Let's not talk or think about—about love—any more than one frets about not being able to visit the moon. We've been finding life happy these last few weeks, with that subject never mentioned. Why not again? Are you too weak? Am I too uninteresting?""I tried once before and failed.""But now that we've looked the situation straight in the face—now that we're both on guard—don't you think we can do better?""I don't know," he confessed. "I'm afraid to try—aren't you?"Her eyes held him, they were so mysterious. "Not so much as I'm afraid not to try," replied she slowly.He dropped into his chair again, sat staring at the blotting pad on the desk."Had you thought," she went on, "what would happen if we owned ourselves beaten and fled from each other?"He presently lifted his eyes, looked at her in wonder. "And that never occurred to me!" he cried. "Why, our only chance now is to stay here and fight it out. If we shirked and tried to escape—" He paused.She nodded gravely."If I went away, it'd only be to come back—desperate. And you——"He did not finish his sentence. They sat silent a long time. "It would be horribly lonely with you gone," said she in an absent, impersonal way. "And loneliness breeds such wild longings."A long silence. Then she rose. "Come up to the house and help me with those plans for a kitchen garden under glass," she suggested.He nodded without looking at her, as if to show her that he understood all and accepted what was beyond question the less dangerous of their alternatives. "As soon as I dress, I'll be there," said he."I forgot. I must change, too. In an hour?""Less."They shook hands in an emphatically comradely fashion, and she went. The former conditions were restored. They would not permit them to be interrupted again. They would demonstrate that, with a thousand, thousand other things, interesting, amusing, to talk and to think about, they could bar out love and keep it out.An hour over the plans, then they had dinner, laughing and joking together like two children. They did not heed or even note the gloom of Winchie and old Nanny—she was waiting, as it was Lizzie's day out. Winchie sat mum and glum, eating in the deliberate way Courtney had taught him and never lifting his jealous eyes from his plate. Nanny—middle-aged, homely, prim with the added sourness of those who have never had the least temptation to be otherwise—Nanny glowered at Gallatin every time she came into the room. She had disapproved of him from the outset and had made no secret of it. This gayety of his, in the absence of the head of the house of Vaughan, changed that dinner for her into a Babylonish revel. She was shocked at Courtney's taking part, but was not surprised. What was to be expected of the weak and frivolous younger generation of her own sex, mad about adorning the body, scornful of the idea of "settling," and incredulous as to hell fire? Her anger concentrated on Gallatin. He was a man; he seemed a serious, moral man. Yet here he was, leading on the vain, weak woman—he a guest of Mr. Vaughan's—trusted by him—put upon his honor. "It's enough to bring Colonel 'Kill back a-harntin'," muttered she into the oven.... Early in the afternoon it cleared gloriously. Outdoors, the two trespassers upon ancient propriety giddied into still higher spirits. And after supper! They banged on the piano and sang "coon" songs and became so hilarious "that you'd think the settin' room was full," said Jimmie to his aunt.Nanny scowled at the blue yarn sock she was knitting with wrinkled, rheumatism-knotted fingers. "Such goings-on!" she growled."Why not?" demanded Jimmie. "Where's the harm? And I reckon Mrs. V. knows how to take care of herself.""Who said she didn't?" snapped Nanny.Toward nine Courtney and Basil went out on the veranda. It was a perfect August night. The honeysuckle in great masses upon the rail was giving forth an odor that quieted them like pensive music. Under the trees and among the bushes the now pale, now bright lamps of the "lightning bugs" shone by scores and hundreds. There was a moon, sailing high and almost full. She thought she had never been so happy in her life. At former happy times there was in her no such capacity to appreciate and enjoy as experience had now given her. And what an ideal companion Basil was—so much the man of the world, wise, experienced, yet simple and amazingly modest. And how marvelously they fitted into each other's moods! She had never thought to find a human being with just the right combination of qualities—one who could be serious—always in an interesting way—and also as light as the lightest."Look at those elder blossoms," said Basil in a low voice, as if louder tones might break the spell and dissolve the beauty, delicate, fragile, unreal.Elder bushes were the outer wall of the eastern shrubbery; their flowers, soft, feathery mats, deliciously sweet to smell, looked at that distance and in that light like a wall of snow. Courtney and Basil descended from the veranda, strolled across the lawn. She lifted her head, seemed to drink in the beauty with her whole face, and to exhale it in a newer, subtler loveliness and perfume."How sweet the boxwood hedge is after to-day's rain."As they neared the water's edge, all other perfumes yielded to the powerful, heavy, sensuous odor of the locust blossoms, in white clusters above the bench on which they presently sat. They were silent, gazing across the lake where, in contrast to the darkness and silence of their shore, lay the town, a shimmer of light, a murmur of confused sounds mingling pleasantly. Down the lake, far out beyond the edge of the heavy shadow flung by the trees, a boat was coming, the man rowing, the girl playing the mandolin and singing. The tinkling of the mandolin and the fresh young voice floated over the waters to Courtney and Basil. She drew in her breath sharply, with a sense of alluring danger hovering. The boat drew nearer; the sounds were clearer—clearer, more tender, more moving. The mandolin tinkled. The free, sweet young voice sang: "I want you—ma honey!—yes I do! I want you—I want you——"She clasped, clinched her hands in her lap. Basil started up. "I can't bear it!" he cried. "I can't!""No—no!" she exclaimed, and her strange look suggested a soul drowning. "Go—go quickly!" And drawing her white shawl about her shoulders, she fled into the house.XI"Where's Mr. Gallatin?" asked Winchie, as he and his mother were finishing breakfast next morning."At the Smoke House, I guess," replied she. There was a far-away look in her eyes, and their lids were heavy. Although Lizzie had been unusually unsuccessful in arranging the flowers, she left the bowl untouched in the center of the table—a solid mass of carnations which she could have changed into a miracle of lightness and grace."Is he coming to breakfast?" asked Winchie."No—at least, I suppose not. How'd you like to go to grandpa's?""Will Mr. Gallatin go?"Courtney's cheeks flushed. "No," she said."Then I'd like it—for a while.""We are going to-morrow," said Courtney. "To-morrow morning.""Is grandpa sick?""No. Nobody is sick.""Then why?"Courtney's face wore a queer smile. "We'll help grandma and Aunt Lal and Aunt Ann put up fruit and jam and preserves.""Will we stay long?" inquired the boy anxiously."Until—until your father—gets back."Winchie looked much downcast. "Why?" he asked."Why not?" said Courtney. "And now, you'll help me pack and I'll help you."It was a busy day, as there were many things to arrange besides the packing. Gallatin did not appear at the house all day, and Courtney did not expect him. Toward ten that night the packing was finished and everything ready for an early departure. Courtney went downstairs and out across the moonlit lawn. Slowly, with gaze straight ahead, she strolled toward the lake, toward the summer house in the copse at the western edge of the grounds. She entered, curled herself up on the broad seat, her elbow upon the rail, her hand supporting her chin. She watched the moonlight in the ripples along the middle of the lake. From time to time, she lifted her head, strained her eyes into the encircling shadows, then resumed her attitude, mental as well as physical, of forlorn abstraction. Something less than half an hour, and when she lifted herself to glance round for the third or fourth time, she did not sink back, but slowly straightened, her breath coming quickly."Who's there?" she called softly, addressing the deep shadows over the path by which she had come.No answer but the chorus of tiny creatures murmuring excitedly in every crevice and beneath every blade and leaf."Who is it?" she demanded, but not loudly or nervously. She stood up."Only I," came in Basil's voice, and he advanced and stood between the entrance pillars of the open rustic pavilion."Oh!" said she. And she resumed gazing over the water, but did not resume her seat."I saw you cross the lawn," he explained. "And I was afraid some one might intrude.""Thank you," said she gratefully."You knew it was I—didn't you?" he went on.A brief silence, then—"Yes," she admitted, and gave a little laugh."Why do you laugh?""Because I just realized that I was expecting you—that I came here hoping to see you. How one does lie to oneself!""Do you wish me to leave you?""No.... What a beautiful night it is!""The loveliest I ever saw.""These locust blossoms— The perfume makes me feel languid—but not sleepy.""I guess it is the locusts," he said. "I feel that way, too.""I'm taking Winchie to my father's for a visit—in the morning.""So Jimmie said.""We'll stay until Richard comes back.""I supposed so."A silence. Then she: "I must go in soon," and an instant later, without realizing it, seated herself."I wrote to Starky—Estelle—to-day.... To ask her to fix the date for the marriage."She shivered."I decided it was best for me to commit myself."She buried her face in her hands."And," he went on, "you know I shall always love you—always! ... I say that because—in a few minutes now we'll part, and never see each other again."With her face between her hands, she gazed at the dancing surface of the watery highway of moonlight, and repeated monotonously—"never see each other again." Then, after a moment, "How heavy the perfume of the locusts is.""Yes," replied he, "but so sweet."Then the thin film of surface over their emotions suddenly burst. "Never again—oh, my Courtney!" he cried between set teeth. Both had thought all day that they were calm and resigned. They knew now how they had been deceiving themselves. He flung away from her. Both knew what was coming, knew it was too late to save themselves, felt the wild reckless thrill of terror and rapture that precedes the breaking down of all barriers, the breaking up of all foundations, the free sweep of unfettered passion. So young—so young—with such a long stretch of empty years—and they never to see each other again!"How can I live on, without you to help me?" she said."It'll be easier for you than for me. You have—your boy. I have—nothing." He sat down, away from her, stared into the blackness of the copse. "Nothing," he repeated. He was holding his breath and waiting for the inevitable storm to break."Basil!" she cried, and in impulsive sympathy reached out and touched him. "Won't it be something—to know that you have my heart—my—love?"She felt him trembling, and there was a sob in his voice as he answered: "But when your arms ache with emptiness, you can put them round Winchie. While I—Courtney, how can I touch another woman, when it's you—you—you—" And his groping hand met hers, clasped it. He bent his head, kissed her hand—the back, the palm, then the fingers one by one. And they softly touched his cheek. "Basil!" she sighed.The faint wind agitated the clusters of locust blooms; their perfume descended in heavy voluptuous waves. He pressed his hands one against each of her cheeks. "Courtney," he murmured. "My love—my dear love!" Their lips met."We must not!" she pleaded, her arms about his neck."After to-night," he reminded her, "we, who love, will never see each other again.""Never again!" she moaned.It was the signal both were unconsciously, yet deliberately, awaiting. He gave an inarticulate cry, caught her up as a strong wind a flower. "I've had enough of right and wrong," cried he. "You are mine! I will not let you go. I love you—I love you—I love you!" And he showered kisses upon her until she, dizzy and fainting, yet never so alive, was clinging to him, was calling him endearing names, was laughing and sobbing. And in that darkness and mad frenzy of longing and despair they could pretend to themselves that it was all as unreal as a dream—was, in fact, a dream, or at worst, impulse—irresistible, irresponsible.He felt her heart flutter, halt in its steady, strong beat within her breast close against his. She raised her head from his shoulder, listened. "What is it?" he whispered."Listen."A bird broke from the copse and with a great noise of wings against leaves blundered away to another and higher place. "A bird—that was all," said he."Sh—h! No. They never stir so suddenly at night without cause." She was cold, was shivering. They looked at each other, tingling with guilty alarm."I'll go see.""Yes—do."He disengaged himself lingeringly, with a parting caress of his lips along her cheek. "It's cold," she murmured. "And I'm—I'm afraid." Never before in all her life had she been afraid.He went softly along the path until the shadows hid him. After a moment he returned to the entrance. "I see nothing," said he."And I hear nothing—any more," replied she. "You don't know what a queer, creepy sensation I had. It was—was—as if some one were near us."He did not seat himself by her again. "Isn't it—very—very late?" he said hesitatingly."Perhaps. But come, dear. Let's forget. It was nothing. Oh, I was so happy—and now—Basil, I'm cold."Instead of sitting and taking her in his arms he drew her to her feet. "I saw your front door open," he said. "I think you'd better go."She flung herself into his arms. "No—no!" she cried. "Not yet."He held her closely, but soon released her. "You had better go," urged he, and she felt nervousness and constraint in his tone, in his touch.She laughed quietly. "What are you afraid of?""Nothing!" he retorted stoutly. "Still, the door is open, and some one might——""Why,you'requite cold! ... Basil, what is it?""Nothing—nothing at all," replied he, his arms round her again, his lips upon hers.Presently she said: "Ithoughtyou were neglecting me rather long. It's a habit men have after—after a woman is entirely theirs.""Don't say those things, even in joke," he begged, so seriously that it jarred on her overwrought nerves."If you take that sort of remarks in earnest," said she, a trace of resentment in her tone, "I'll be likely to believe there's something in it.""It was so—so frank," apologized he."Why not speak frankly?" said she. "One of the joys of loving you is that we'll be entirely frank with each other. I'll never be afraid to show you how much I love you, or to say whatever thought comes into my mind. And you must feel that you can be your natural self always, can speak out any thought you may have, no matter what it is. All that doesn't mean much to you. But to me—" She drew a long, deep breath. "You—a man—couldn't possibly know how delicious it is to a woman to be able to be her—her naked self! ... You're not listening. You don't hold me tightly. Are you shocked?""No," answered he with constraint. "I keep thinking of—of—that door."She was silent, offended."I wasn't quite frank with you a moment ago.""Already!" she sighed. Then, repentantly: "I know I'm silly. But it means so much to me to feel that we—you and I—can stand before each other, just as we are. Oh, I've hidden myself so long, Basil. Your love—the great temptation of it was that it meant freedom. If I were your wife, you'd expect all sorts of conventional things of me. If you were my husband, I'd feel and you'd feel we had to live up to standards and do customary things. As it is, our love's free—free!"He was silent."Basil, don't you feel that way?""Yes, dear," he answered absently. "But—I must tell you. When I went out—a while ago to look, I saw Nanny on the porch."Even in that dimness he saw the terror in her face. "On the porch!" she gasped. She sprang up. "Why didn't you tell me before?" she cried angrily."I—I thought it might alarm you foolishly.""I'm not a hysterical fool. Please don't forget that—again.""Courtney!""Oh, forgive me—my love." When they had embraced: "Yes—I must go—at once.... Why can't you come with me? Start as soon as you see I'm at the door. But you mustn't cross the lawn. You must go round by the shadows. It would be quite safe. You needn't go back to the shop.""Impossible!"She was silent, waiting for him to feel how hurt she was and to reassure her. But he stood aloof, and presently asked in a constrained voice, "How long will you be at your father's?""At my father's!" she exclaimed. "Why, I shall not go!""You must," he insisted. "You've made all the arrangements.""You can send me away—now?""Please—dear. Don't be unreasonable. If you changed your plan everybody'd think it strange.""Everybody—who?""Nanny, for instance.""Nanny? Why should I care what Nanny thinks? My first scare was only—guilty conscience. Basil, why are you so queer—so absent and—distant? Tell me—just what it is in your mind?"She rested her hands pleadingly on his shoulders and looked up at him. In her eyes, as in his, shone the fever of their delirium. He took her hands, kissed her. "Don't be foolish," he said, trying to laugh. "I guess I am a little bit unnerved."But she was not satisfied. "Basil—do you regret?""Courtney! Courtney!" he pleaded. "That's the way to tear our happiness down, stone by stone, till nothing's left but ruins. You must not be suspicious." He patted her reassuringly on the shoulder with an air of possession. "Of course I love you, more than ever.""You say it in a tone that—that sounds like superior to inferior." She sighed. "Is nothing in the world up to its promise? Here, I thought we'd be perfectly happy—two pariahs together—two lost souls—but accepting our punishment of secret shame and hypocrisy—accepting it gladly, as it was the price we had to pay for freedom and each other. And already, in the first hour, we're almost quarreling. It must not be, Basil.""No, dearest," he cried. "And it will not be. We will be happy. Trust me. I'm unstrung—and maybe you, too. But you know I love you—more than I ever thought. And really you ought to go in the morning—really, dearest! You need stay only two days. You can come home the second day. Don't you see we must—must—must be careful? Now that there's something to conceal, we can't act any longer as we did."She laid her clasped hand on her breast, looked wistfully up at him. "We can't ever be free and unafraid again, can we?" said she. "It isn't just one act of—of concealment—is it?—and freedom and openness afterwards. I see lies—and lies—and yet more lies—stretching away—away—until—" She shuddered, hid her face in his shoulder. "Oh, my love!""I'd tell all the lies in the world to have you." He embraced her almost roughly. "All—all! And care not a rap. You—you are my god and my morality. To love you, to have you, to keep you—that's all. The rest is trash.""Yes—yes," echoed she feverishly. "The rest is trash. We've got the best. Love!""And we'll hold on to it—always!""Must I go in the morning, when life has just begun? How can I? No—no—don't answer. I know you're right. I'll go—and ... Good by!"She flung her arms about him. He caught up her small, warm body with its soft curves and its radiations of vivid, perfumed life. Their lips clung together. They separated, laughed dizzily. She waved her arm and darted up the path. From the shadows he watched her cross the lawn, like some creation of the summer and the moonlight. In the doorway she paused, waved to him once more; the door closed. Then he, like a thief, sneaked along the retaining walls at the lake shore—now stooping to keep in the deep shadow, out of sight of anyone who might be watching from the house—now advancing erect with stealthy swiftness—until he was able to strike into the darkness of the path to the Smoke House.Midway in undressing his eyes chanced upon her picture, framed and hanging opposite the foot of the bed—a large photograph, with Winchie, a tiny baby, against her shoulder, his fat check pressing upon hers. Basil stood before the picture, his expression a very human and moving mingling of awe and adoration and passion. Suddenly he remembered to whom that picture belonged. "But not she!" he said aloud defiantly. Nevertheless, he flushed, hung his head, switched off the light, and sought his bed. "How can I ever face him?" he muttered. Then: "She is mine! She never was really his. I take nothing that belongs to him. I take nothing she could give, or ever did give, to him."He fell immediately into a sound sleep—the exhaustion of nerves so long on fierce tension. But about two in the morning he started up, listened. Yes, some one was moving beneath the window. He went to it, looked down. There was Courtney, swathed in a long, dark cloak. He thrust his feet into slippers, drew on a big dressing gown, descended, and opened the door. He stretched out his arms.She flung herself against his breast. "I couldn't go without seeing you again," she panted. "After I left you, and got into bed, I began to think all sorts of dreadful things about you. You acted so strangely. And then I felt ashamed of myself, felt I must come and beg your pardon. And—and—here I am. Are you glad?"His laugh was answer enough. He took her in his arms, carried her up to the sitting room, set her down on the sofa. "How light you are!" he cried. "But how strong—I've seen you swing Winchie to your shoulder as if he were nothing at all. Now—please—won't you let your hair down? There never was such hair as yours."She sat up, let the cloak fall away. The moon was flooding the room. As she sat there, with eyes sparkling and small, sensitive face shy-bold, she looked as if she had sprung to mortal life from an old folk song about loreleis and nymphs and enchanted princesses. "You floated in on the moonbeams," he declared. "I'm afraid, if I don't shut the window, you'll flit away.""That'd not stop me," laughed she. And she began to take her hair down. Just as it was about to unroll, she paused. "Wouldn't you like to take it down yourself?"He went round behind her, drew out the hairpins one by one, fumbling softly, lingeringly for them, keeping them carefully. Her hair loosened, uncoiled, fell about her in a shimmering veil. "Oh, my love!" he cried. "My beautiful Courtney!" And he took the soft, perfumed veil in his hands, kissed it again and again, buried his face in it, wrapped her head and his together in it.She laughed delightedly, then drew away, looking at him with mock severity. "And where, sir, did you learn how to make a woman so happy?""What things youdosay!" he laughed, just a little bit scandalized. "I might ask the same question of you.""And I can answer it—" with a mocking smile—"without evasion. Imagination. I've so often thought—and thought—and thought—what I would be to a man I freely loved—one I wasn't afraid of scandalizing. Oh, I know I shock you—for there's a great deal you've yet to learn about women—that they're human, just like men. But you'll learn—and then I think you'll see I'm good—for I am. I couldn't be bad—hate anyone—play mean tricks, say or do mean things. Don't you wish I were tall—wish there were more of me?""I couldn't live through it.""And you really—really—love me?"He held her tightly by the shoulders, gazed into her eyes. "So much that, if you were untrue to me, I'd kill you.""Now, what made you think of that?""I don't know."Thoughtfully: "I guess it is because I'm giving myself to you when I am—am— Now, there you go, shocked again."He laughed recklessly. "Give me time," said he, "and I'll get used to it. You say you'd rather I showed just how I felt than locked it away and pretended.""Yes—yes—a thousand times! I don't mind your being shocked—not really." With a queer little laugh, "I'm shocked myself. Somehow I seem to delight in shocking myself—and you. Loving you is—all sorts of pleasures and pains. I want them all!""All!" he echoed. "Yes—all!"Midway in her embrace she stopped him, pushed him laughingly away with, "But you weren't quite frank a while ago.""When?""There at the lake.""Why do you think so?""Did you ever see one of those little toy spaniels—how they quiver and shiver all the time? I'm just as sensitive as that. You mustn't try to deceive me—ever! You mustn't say or act any of those hypocrisies of what some people call good taste, either. They're not necessary with me. They'd make me feel deceived. I might not confess I knew—and then—'The little rift within the lute.'""I guess I'll tell you," he said for the moment deeply impressed. "Yes, I will.""Tell me everything—everything. There mustn't be any concealment—anything to lie hid away in the depths of some dark closet to rot and rot and infect the whole house." She suddenly lowered her head; and, as the full meaning of her words, the meaning she had not foreseen, reached him, he, too, became ill at ease.Presently he said: "I didn't want to frighten you needlessly. When I saw Nanny—she was—just going up the steps of the porch."Courtney's eyes widened and her face blanched. "You think—" she began when she could find voice."I couldn't tell which direction she had come from," he replied. "But it's no matter. She couldn't know."Courtney remembered the darkness—how grateful she had been for its friendly aid. "No," said she resolutely. "She couldn't know.""Certainly not," echoed he, as if the idea that she could were absurd. "But it made me realize how careful we must be.""Yes," replied she thoughtfully. "Yes." And she was clinging to him, was sobbing. "Oh, my love—my love—I don't care what comes, if only it does not separate us.... Look! Look!" she cried, pointing out into the sky. "Dawn! I must fly. Wherearemy slippers!"He found them for her, put them on, bundled her into her cloak, picked her up, and hurried downstairs with her. "I'm not so little," said she. "It's because you're so big and strong. One kiss—quick!"He kissed her—on the lips and, as she turned to go, again on the nape of the neck. "Day after to-morrow!" he cried."Yes, I'll come here at nine, rain or shine."And she ran along the path. The moon had set; it was intensely dark. Arriving within sight of the house she stopped short. There were lights, upstairs and down, shadows of moving figures on the curtains. "God!" she ejaculated. "WhatshallI do!" And for the first time the great fear—the fear a woman has when she thinks she has lost her reputation—buried its talons in her throat and its beak in her heart. Do? Face it! She lifted her head high, gathered herself together, advanced boldly. As she entered the front door she ran into Nanny."What's the meaning of this?" she demanded. In the same instant her courage fled and she leaned faint against the wall. "Winchie!" she gasped. "Has something happened to him?"Nanny was standing stiffly with eyes down—a sullen figure, accusing, contemptuous. But she answered respectfully enough if surlily: "Winchie missed you and came up and waked me and Mazie just now."Down the stairs came the boy, sobbing, shouting, "Mamma! Mamma! I lost you."Courtney caught him up, hugged him, kissed him. "You silly baby!" she cried, laughing. "What a fuss about nothing. Put out the lights, Nannie." Halfway up the stairs she hesitated. Would it be more natural to make an explanation or to say nothing? She decided it was best, more like her usual self, to say nothing. "Put out the lights and go to bed," she repeated.
X
Ten minutes before breakfast time a knock at the hall door into her bedroom. She knew who it was that could not reach above the lower panels. "Come in!" she cried. Winchie entered—stopped short on the threshold.
"Good morning, Mr. Benedict Vaughan," said she, nodding at him by way of the mirror before which she was arranging her blouse at the neck. And he knew she was in a particularly fine humor.
"Have we got company? Who?" he asked.
"No. Why?"
"Aren't you going to take me for a walk after breakfast?"
"Of course. Don't we always go?"
"But it's raining."
"I know."
"Wouldn't it spoil that dress?"
"One'd think you had a sloven for a mother. Don't I always dress?"
"But that's a long skirt. And you're not putting on a shirt waist."
"I'll change after breakfast."
"Oh." This, however, contented him for a moment only. He eyed her critically as she made one insignificant little change after another, displaying a fussiness quite unusual. "I guess we're to have company—maybe."
"Not at all. We never have people to breakfast. Whatareyou puzzling about?"
"Why didn't you put on the rain dress?"
Courtney's delicate skin was showing more than its normal color. She shook her head laughingly at him—this child whose questions were forcing her to see a truth she was striving might and main to hide from herself. "You don't like this dress?"
"Yes, I like 'em all. It isn't the dress, exactly."
"Then what is it?"
"I don't know. It's—something. It made me think company right away." The bar of music from the gong came floating up from below. "There's breakfast!" he exclaimed. "Are you 'most ready?"
"Quite," replied she, with a last look at profile, back hair and back of skirt with the aid of a hand glass.
"Maybe there'll be company," said Winchie as they started.
"I'm sure there'll be corn muffins," said she. "I smell them."
"If there's hash, may I have a little?"
"A little."
The descent was slow as Winchie's legs were short. She listened at every step, but could hear no sound of the kind she hoped. At the sitting-room door she glanced round. He was not there. "He's in the dining room," she said half to herself.
"Who, mamma?"
Courtney startled, flushed. "What is it, dear?" she stammered guiltily.
"Has papa come?"
"No, I was thinking of Mr. Gallatin."
Winchie drew his hand from hers. But she did not note it; for they were at the threshold of the dining room, and no one was there but Lizzie. She and Winchie sat, but she did not begin. A moment and she went to the telephone in the hall, took down the receiver of the private wire. Soon she heard in Basil's voice, "Hello. What is it?"
"It's—I."
"Oh." Then silence.
"Did you hurt yourself last night?"
"No, not at all—thank you."
In a constrained voice: "I thought you were coming to breakfast."
"I felt it was better not to."
"Oh!—good-by." And she hung up the receiver.
Back in the dining room, uneasy under Winchie's serious steady gaze, she winced at his first remark: "Mr. Gallatin's company. There's you—and me—and the rest's company." After a pause, doubtfully: "Except papa. He's not quite company, I guess."
"Do you want some of the hash?"
"You said there wasn't to be company."
"Please! Please!" she cried. "You'll give me the headache."
"You said I was always to say what I had in my brains."
She bent over and kissed his hand. "And so you must."
"Do you say everything that's in your brains?"
She reddened again. "Everything Winchie'd understand," replied she. "After a while, when you grow up, you'll find a lot of things in your mind that it'd be of no use to say because nobody would understand—a lot of things you won't understand yourself."
"There is those in, already," said he solemnly.
She laughed. "No doubt."
As she did not encourage him, he addressed himself to the hash, which was the kind he liked—brown and not too dry, and with the potatoes in little cubes. She poured her coffee, just touched one of Mazie's famous corn muffins as she slowly drank it, and gave herself up to the clear and calm daylight reflections that make comment so cynical and so severe upon what we do and say and think under the spell of night. She put on a waterproof hat and suit, leggings and boots, and issued forth for a two-hours' tramp with Winchie, who was dressed in the same fashion. When they got back at ten, she felt she was not the same woman as the one who had the adventure with the burglar on the balcony. She saw Winchie into dry clothes and settled at his rainy-day games—then out she went again. She walked rapidly along the path to the Smoke House; was soon rapping at the heavy iron door of the laboratory. She rapped again and again, turned away angry, was almost back at the edge of the shrubbery when she remembered that Richard had locked the laboratory, that Basil could not possibly be there.
She hesitated, returned to the Smoke House, knocked at the door of the stairway leading up to the suite. No answer. She opened it, went upstairs. At the top she paused, called, "Anybody here?"
Basil appeared in the doorway of the sitting room. He was in a dark-blue summer house suit, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. His face was very red; his eyes did not meet hers. "Lizzie straightened up and left about half an hour ago," said he.
"I came for a look round," explained she, admiring, without seeming to do so, his elegant and fashionable suit, the harmony of its color with his soft négligée shirt and flowing artist's tie. But then she always liked the way he dressed, the way he wore his clothes. "I come once a week in the morning to keep Lizzie up to the mark," she went on. "You're down in the laboratory at that time, so you haven't known what a model housekeeper I am."
He did not stand aside for her to enter.
"I also had another reason," pursued she. "Please don't choke up the doorway. I'm coming in."
He bowed, stood aside. She entered, glanced round the sober but not somber room with its walls, ceilings, floor, and furniture of walnut. It was a comfortable place and beautifully clean. "Jimmie attends to the floors?"
"Every week."
She glanced into the adjoining room—kalsomined walls and ceiling, a white oak floor, a big chest of drawers, a big mirror, a big table and chair, a roomy brass bedstead. "Any complaints?"
"Everything perfectly satisfactory," he assured her.
"Now for my other business—my real business," said she, disposing herself in one of the window seats. "You may continue to stand, if you prefer; but it would please me better if you sat."
He seated himself stiffly at the table desk. Her eyes were dancing with amusement at his overelaborated formality. It made him seem such a boy, made her feel vastly wiser and stronger and older than he.
"Why didn't you come to breakfast?" she inquired in a most businesslike tone.
"I made up my mind not to see you again until Vaughan returned."
"And then, to go away?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I prefer not to answer that."
"Why not?"
"It's true Vaughan and I are not exactly friends. Still, I've been disloyal. I shall be so no more."
She clasped her hands round one knee, looked at him with half closed eyes. "I do not like to be regarded as part of some one's else belongings," said she. "I belong to myself."
"I wish to God you did!"
"You attach too much importance to what a woman says and does on impulse. I was much upset last night. I said and did things that seem absurd to me in daylight."
"I am just as absurd, as you call it, in daylight as I was in moonlight."
She flinched, controlled herself, made an impatient gesture. "Don't say those things, or you'll spoil everything," she half pleaded, half commanded.
He strode to a window across the room from that in which she was sitting. "Everything is spoiled. I've simply got to go."
"No." She shook her head slowly. "You will stay, and we'll be friends again, as before."
"If I could only wipe out last night!" he cried, and he wheeled upon her.
She caught her breath. "Do you mean that?" she asked impulsively.
He stopped short, faced her, but his eyes were down. "No, I don't," replied he. "And that's the devil of it."
"Why?"
"If I honestly regretted last night, I could stay."
"Why do you lie to yourself?" she asked, crossing the room toward him. "You have no real intention of going."
His gaze sank. "I shall try to go," he muttered.
She laughed—after she had returned to the safer distance of the window seat. "What a passion for hypocrisy you men have. 'I shall try.' You hope that last tiny rag of a remnant will cover your real purpose."
"You think I am a dishonorable dog. I don't wonder at it."
"No, I don't. But I do think you are taking yourself entirely too seriously. You don't want to go, do you? And I don't wish you to go. And Richard doesn't want you to go."
"He'd compel it if he knew."
"But he doesn't know. Maybe, if I knew some things about you, I'd want you to go. Maybe, if you knew me thoroughly, you'd be eager to go. As it is, we all want things to stay as they are."
"Last night was a warning."
"Yes," she hastened to assent. "Let's heed it. Let's go back to friendship and not wander. My friend, you're letting your mind hang over just one subject, just one side of the relations of men and women. Isn't there more to me than—that?"
"Courtney!" he protested.
"Then let's be friends. Let's put aside what we can't have. Let's take and enjoy what we can. Let's not talk or think about—about love—any more than one frets about not being able to visit the moon. We've been finding life happy these last few weeks, with that subject never mentioned. Why not again? Are you too weak? Am I too uninteresting?"
"I tried once before and failed."
"But now that we've looked the situation straight in the face—now that we're both on guard—don't you think we can do better?"
"I don't know," he confessed. "I'm afraid to try—aren't you?"
Her eyes held him, they were so mysterious. "Not so much as I'm afraid not to try," replied she slowly.
He dropped into his chair again, sat staring at the blotting pad on the desk.
"Had you thought," she went on, "what would happen if we owned ourselves beaten and fled from each other?"
He presently lifted his eyes, looked at her in wonder. "And that never occurred to me!" he cried. "Why, our only chance now is to stay here and fight it out. If we shirked and tried to escape—" He paused.
She nodded gravely.
"If I went away, it'd only be to come back—desperate. And you——"
He did not finish his sentence. They sat silent a long time. "It would be horribly lonely with you gone," said she in an absent, impersonal way. "And loneliness breeds such wild longings."
A long silence. Then she rose. "Come up to the house and help me with those plans for a kitchen garden under glass," she suggested.
He nodded without looking at her, as if to show her that he understood all and accepted what was beyond question the less dangerous of their alternatives. "As soon as I dress, I'll be there," said he.
"I forgot. I must change, too. In an hour?"
"Less."
They shook hands in an emphatically comradely fashion, and she went. The former conditions were restored. They would not permit them to be interrupted again. They would demonstrate that, with a thousand, thousand other things, interesting, amusing, to talk and to think about, they could bar out love and keep it out.
An hour over the plans, then they had dinner, laughing and joking together like two children. They did not heed or even note the gloom of Winchie and old Nanny—she was waiting, as it was Lizzie's day out. Winchie sat mum and glum, eating in the deliberate way Courtney had taught him and never lifting his jealous eyes from his plate. Nanny—middle-aged, homely, prim with the added sourness of those who have never had the least temptation to be otherwise—Nanny glowered at Gallatin every time she came into the room. She had disapproved of him from the outset and had made no secret of it. This gayety of his, in the absence of the head of the house of Vaughan, changed that dinner for her into a Babylonish revel. She was shocked at Courtney's taking part, but was not surprised. What was to be expected of the weak and frivolous younger generation of her own sex, mad about adorning the body, scornful of the idea of "settling," and incredulous as to hell fire? Her anger concentrated on Gallatin. He was a man; he seemed a serious, moral man. Yet here he was, leading on the vain, weak woman—he a guest of Mr. Vaughan's—trusted by him—put upon his honor. "It's enough to bring Colonel 'Kill back a-harntin'," muttered she into the oven.... Early in the afternoon it cleared gloriously. Outdoors, the two trespassers upon ancient propriety giddied into still higher spirits. And after supper! They banged on the piano and sang "coon" songs and became so hilarious "that you'd think the settin' room was full," said Jimmie to his aunt.
Nanny scowled at the blue yarn sock she was knitting with wrinkled, rheumatism-knotted fingers. "Such goings-on!" she growled.
"Why not?" demanded Jimmie. "Where's the harm? And I reckon Mrs. V. knows how to take care of herself."
"Who said she didn't?" snapped Nanny.
Toward nine Courtney and Basil went out on the veranda. It was a perfect August night. The honeysuckle in great masses upon the rail was giving forth an odor that quieted them like pensive music. Under the trees and among the bushes the now pale, now bright lamps of the "lightning bugs" shone by scores and hundreds. There was a moon, sailing high and almost full. She thought she had never been so happy in her life. At former happy times there was in her no such capacity to appreciate and enjoy as experience had now given her. And what an ideal companion Basil was—so much the man of the world, wise, experienced, yet simple and amazingly modest. And how marvelously they fitted into each other's moods! She had never thought to find a human being with just the right combination of qualities—one who could be serious—always in an interesting way—and also as light as the lightest.
"Look at those elder blossoms," said Basil in a low voice, as if louder tones might break the spell and dissolve the beauty, delicate, fragile, unreal.
Elder bushes were the outer wall of the eastern shrubbery; their flowers, soft, feathery mats, deliciously sweet to smell, looked at that distance and in that light like a wall of snow. Courtney and Basil descended from the veranda, strolled across the lawn. She lifted her head, seemed to drink in the beauty with her whole face, and to exhale it in a newer, subtler loveliness and perfume.
"How sweet the boxwood hedge is after to-day's rain."
As they neared the water's edge, all other perfumes yielded to the powerful, heavy, sensuous odor of the locust blossoms, in white clusters above the bench on which they presently sat. They were silent, gazing across the lake where, in contrast to the darkness and silence of their shore, lay the town, a shimmer of light, a murmur of confused sounds mingling pleasantly. Down the lake, far out beyond the edge of the heavy shadow flung by the trees, a boat was coming, the man rowing, the girl playing the mandolin and singing. The tinkling of the mandolin and the fresh young voice floated over the waters to Courtney and Basil. She drew in her breath sharply, with a sense of alluring danger hovering. The boat drew nearer; the sounds were clearer—clearer, more tender, more moving. The mandolin tinkled. The free, sweet young voice sang: "I want you—ma honey!—yes I do! I want you—I want you——"
She clasped, clinched her hands in her lap. Basil started up. "I can't bear it!" he cried. "I can't!"
"No—no!" she exclaimed, and her strange look suggested a soul drowning. "Go—go quickly!" And drawing her white shawl about her shoulders, she fled into the house.
XI
"Where's Mr. Gallatin?" asked Winchie, as he and his mother were finishing breakfast next morning.
"At the Smoke House, I guess," replied she. There was a far-away look in her eyes, and their lids were heavy. Although Lizzie had been unusually unsuccessful in arranging the flowers, she left the bowl untouched in the center of the table—a solid mass of carnations which she could have changed into a miracle of lightness and grace.
"Is he coming to breakfast?" asked Winchie.
"No—at least, I suppose not. How'd you like to go to grandpa's?"
"Will Mr. Gallatin go?"
Courtney's cheeks flushed. "No," she said.
"Then I'd like it—for a while."
"We are going to-morrow," said Courtney. "To-morrow morning."
"Is grandpa sick?"
"No. Nobody is sick."
"Then why?"
Courtney's face wore a queer smile. "We'll help grandma and Aunt Lal and Aunt Ann put up fruit and jam and preserves."
"Will we stay long?" inquired the boy anxiously.
"Until—until your father—gets back."
Winchie looked much downcast. "Why?" he asked.
"Why not?" said Courtney. "And now, you'll help me pack and I'll help you."
It was a busy day, as there were many things to arrange besides the packing. Gallatin did not appear at the house all day, and Courtney did not expect him. Toward ten that night the packing was finished and everything ready for an early departure. Courtney went downstairs and out across the moonlit lawn. Slowly, with gaze straight ahead, she strolled toward the lake, toward the summer house in the copse at the western edge of the grounds. She entered, curled herself up on the broad seat, her elbow upon the rail, her hand supporting her chin. She watched the moonlight in the ripples along the middle of the lake. From time to time, she lifted her head, strained her eyes into the encircling shadows, then resumed her attitude, mental as well as physical, of forlorn abstraction. Something less than half an hour, and when she lifted herself to glance round for the third or fourth time, she did not sink back, but slowly straightened, her breath coming quickly.
"Who's there?" she called softly, addressing the deep shadows over the path by which she had come.
No answer but the chorus of tiny creatures murmuring excitedly in every crevice and beneath every blade and leaf.
"Who is it?" she demanded, but not loudly or nervously. She stood up.
"Only I," came in Basil's voice, and he advanced and stood between the entrance pillars of the open rustic pavilion.
"Oh!" said she. And she resumed gazing over the water, but did not resume her seat.
"I saw you cross the lawn," he explained. "And I was afraid some one might intrude."
"Thank you," said she gratefully.
"You knew it was I—didn't you?" he went on.
A brief silence, then—"Yes," she admitted, and gave a little laugh.
"Why do you laugh?"
"Because I just realized that I was expecting you—that I came here hoping to see you. How one does lie to oneself!"
"Do you wish me to leave you?"
"No.... What a beautiful night it is!"
"The loveliest I ever saw."
"These locust blossoms— The perfume makes me feel languid—but not sleepy."
"I guess it is the locusts," he said. "I feel that way, too."
"I'm taking Winchie to my father's for a visit—in the morning."
"So Jimmie said."
"We'll stay until Richard comes back."
"I supposed so."
A silence. Then she: "I must go in soon," and an instant later, without realizing it, seated herself.
"I wrote to Starky—Estelle—to-day.... To ask her to fix the date for the marriage."
She shivered.
"I decided it was best for me to commit myself."
She buried her face in her hands.
"And," he went on, "you know I shall always love you—always! ... I say that because—in a few minutes now we'll part, and never see each other again."
With her face between her hands, she gazed at the dancing surface of the watery highway of moonlight, and repeated monotonously—"never see each other again." Then, after a moment, "How heavy the perfume of the locusts is."
"Yes," replied he, "but so sweet."
Then the thin film of surface over their emotions suddenly burst. "Never again—oh, my Courtney!" he cried between set teeth. Both had thought all day that they were calm and resigned. They knew now how they had been deceiving themselves. He flung away from her. Both knew what was coming, knew it was too late to save themselves, felt the wild reckless thrill of terror and rapture that precedes the breaking down of all barriers, the breaking up of all foundations, the free sweep of unfettered passion. So young—so young—with such a long stretch of empty years—and they never to see each other again!
"How can I live on, without you to help me?" she said.
"It'll be easier for you than for me. You have—your boy. I have—nothing." He sat down, away from her, stared into the blackness of the copse. "Nothing," he repeated. He was holding his breath and waiting for the inevitable storm to break.
"Basil!" she cried, and in impulsive sympathy reached out and touched him. "Won't it be something—to know that you have my heart—my—love?"
She felt him trembling, and there was a sob in his voice as he answered: "But when your arms ache with emptiness, you can put them round Winchie. While I—Courtney, how can I touch another woman, when it's you—you—you—" And his groping hand met hers, clasped it. He bent his head, kissed her hand—the back, the palm, then the fingers one by one. And they softly touched his cheek. "Basil!" she sighed.
The faint wind agitated the clusters of locust blooms; their perfume descended in heavy voluptuous waves. He pressed his hands one against each of her cheeks. "Courtney," he murmured. "My love—my dear love!" Their lips met.
"We must not!" she pleaded, her arms about his neck.
"After to-night," he reminded her, "we, who love, will never see each other again."
"Never again!" she moaned.
It was the signal both were unconsciously, yet deliberately, awaiting. He gave an inarticulate cry, caught her up as a strong wind a flower. "I've had enough of right and wrong," cried he. "You are mine! I will not let you go. I love you—I love you—I love you!" And he showered kisses upon her until she, dizzy and fainting, yet never so alive, was clinging to him, was calling him endearing names, was laughing and sobbing. And in that darkness and mad frenzy of longing and despair they could pretend to themselves that it was all as unreal as a dream—was, in fact, a dream, or at worst, impulse—irresistible, irresponsible.
He felt her heart flutter, halt in its steady, strong beat within her breast close against his. She raised her head from his shoulder, listened. "What is it?" he whispered.
"Listen."
A bird broke from the copse and with a great noise of wings against leaves blundered away to another and higher place. "A bird—that was all," said he.
"Sh—h! No. They never stir so suddenly at night without cause." She was cold, was shivering. They looked at each other, tingling with guilty alarm.
"I'll go see."
"Yes—do."
He disengaged himself lingeringly, with a parting caress of his lips along her cheek. "It's cold," she murmured. "And I'm—I'm afraid." Never before in all her life had she been afraid.
He went softly along the path until the shadows hid him. After a moment he returned to the entrance. "I see nothing," said he.
"And I hear nothing—any more," replied she. "You don't know what a queer, creepy sensation I had. It was—was—as if some one were near us."
He did not seat himself by her again. "Isn't it—very—very late?" he said hesitatingly.
"Perhaps. But come, dear. Let's forget. It was nothing. Oh, I was so happy—and now—Basil, I'm cold."
Instead of sitting and taking her in his arms he drew her to her feet. "I saw your front door open," he said. "I think you'd better go."
She flung herself into his arms. "No—no!" she cried. "Not yet."
He held her closely, but soon released her. "You had better go," urged he, and she felt nervousness and constraint in his tone, in his touch.
She laughed quietly. "What are you afraid of?"
"Nothing!" he retorted stoutly. "Still, the door is open, and some one might——"
"Why,you'requite cold! ... Basil, what is it?"
"Nothing—nothing at all," replied he, his arms round her again, his lips upon hers.
Presently she said: "Ithoughtyou were neglecting me rather long. It's a habit men have after—after a woman is entirely theirs."
"Don't say those things, even in joke," he begged, so seriously that it jarred on her overwrought nerves.
"If you take that sort of remarks in earnest," said she, a trace of resentment in her tone, "I'll be likely to believe there's something in it."
"It was so—so frank," apologized he.
"Why not speak frankly?" said she. "One of the joys of loving you is that we'll be entirely frank with each other. I'll never be afraid to show you how much I love you, or to say whatever thought comes into my mind. And you must feel that you can be your natural self always, can speak out any thought you may have, no matter what it is. All that doesn't mean much to you. But to me—" She drew a long, deep breath. "You—a man—couldn't possibly know how delicious it is to a woman to be able to be her—her naked self! ... You're not listening. You don't hold me tightly. Are you shocked?"
"No," answered he with constraint. "I keep thinking of—of—that door."
She was silent, offended.
"I wasn't quite frank with you a moment ago."
"Already!" she sighed. Then, repentantly: "I know I'm silly. But it means so much to me to feel that we—you and I—can stand before each other, just as we are. Oh, I've hidden myself so long, Basil. Your love—the great temptation of it was that it meant freedom. If I were your wife, you'd expect all sorts of conventional things of me. If you were my husband, I'd feel and you'd feel we had to live up to standards and do customary things. As it is, our love's free—free!"
He was silent.
"Basil, don't you feel that way?"
"Yes, dear," he answered absently. "But—I must tell you. When I went out—a while ago to look, I saw Nanny on the porch."
Even in that dimness he saw the terror in her face. "On the porch!" she gasped. She sprang up. "Why didn't you tell me before?" she cried angrily.
"I—I thought it might alarm you foolishly."
"I'm not a hysterical fool. Please don't forget that—again."
"Courtney!"
"Oh, forgive me—my love." When they had embraced: "Yes—I must go—at once.... Why can't you come with me? Start as soon as you see I'm at the door. But you mustn't cross the lawn. You must go round by the shadows. It would be quite safe. You needn't go back to the shop."
"Impossible!"
She was silent, waiting for him to feel how hurt she was and to reassure her. But he stood aloof, and presently asked in a constrained voice, "How long will you be at your father's?"
"At my father's!" she exclaimed. "Why, I shall not go!"
"You must," he insisted. "You've made all the arrangements."
"You can send me away—now?"
"Please—dear. Don't be unreasonable. If you changed your plan everybody'd think it strange."
"Everybody—who?"
"Nanny, for instance."
"Nanny? Why should I care what Nanny thinks? My first scare was only—guilty conscience. Basil, why are you so queer—so absent and—distant? Tell me—just what it is in your mind?"
She rested her hands pleadingly on his shoulders and looked up at him. In her eyes, as in his, shone the fever of their delirium. He took her hands, kissed her. "Don't be foolish," he said, trying to laugh. "I guess I am a little bit unnerved."
But she was not satisfied. "Basil—do you regret?"
"Courtney! Courtney!" he pleaded. "That's the way to tear our happiness down, stone by stone, till nothing's left but ruins. You must not be suspicious." He patted her reassuringly on the shoulder with an air of possession. "Of course I love you, more than ever."
"You say it in a tone that—that sounds like superior to inferior." She sighed. "Is nothing in the world up to its promise? Here, I thought we'd be perfectly happy—two pariahs together—two lost souls—but accepting our punishment of secret shame and hypocrisy—accepting it gladly, as it was the price we had to pay for freedom and each other. And already, in the first hour, we're almost quarreling. It must not be, Basil."
"No, dearest," he cried. "And it will not be. We will be happy. Trust me. I'm unstrung—and maybe you, too. But you know I love you—more than I ever thought. And really you ought to go in the morning—really, dearest! You need stay only two days. You can come home the second day. Don't you see we must—must—must be careful? Now that there's something to conceal, we can't act any longer as we did."
She laid her clasped hand on her breast, looked wistfully up at him. "We can't ever be free and unafraid again, can we?" said she. "It isn't just one act of—of concealment—is it?—and freedom and openness afterwards. I see lies—and lies—and yet more lies—stretching away—away—until—" She shuddered, hid her face in his shoulder. "Oh, my love!"
"I'd tell all the lies in the world to have you." He embraced her almost roughly. "All—all! And care not a rap. You—you are my god and my morality. To love you, to have you, to keep you—that's all. The rest is trash."
"Yes—yes," echoed she feverishly. "The rest is trash. We've got the best. Love!"
"And we'll hold on to it—always!"
"Must I go in the morning, when life has just begun? How can I? No—no—don't answer. I know you're right. I'll go—and ... Good by!"
She flung her arms about him. He caught up her small, warm body with its soft curves and its radiations of vivid, perfumed life. Their lips clung together. They separated, laughed dizzily. She waved her arm and darted up the path. From the shadows he watched her cross the lawn, like some creation of the summer and the moonlight. In the doorway she paused, waved to him once more; the door closed. Then he, like a thief, sneaked along the retaining walls at the lake shore—now stooping to keep in the deep shadow, out of sight of anyone who might be watching from the house—now advancing erect with stealthy swiftness—until he was able to strike into the darkness of the path to the Smoke House.
Midway in undressing his eyes chanced upon her picture, framed and hanging opposite the foot of the bed—a large photograph, with Winchie, a tiny baby, against her shoulder, his fat check pressing upon hers. Basil stood before the picture, his expression a very human and moving mingling of awe and adoration and passion. Suddenly he remembered to whom that picture belonged. "But not she!" he said aloud defiantly. Nevertheless, he flushed, hung his head, switched off the light, and sought his bed. "How can I ever face him?" he muttered. Then: "She is mine! She never was really his. I take nothing that belongs to him. I take nothing she could give, or ever did give, to him."
He fell immediately into a sound sleep—the exhaustion of nerves so long on fierce tension. But about two in the morning he started up, listened. Yes, some one was moving beneath the window. He went to it, looked down. There was Courtney, swathed in a long, dark cloak. He thrust his feet into slippers, drew on a big dressing gown, descended, and opened the door. He stretched out his arms.
She flung herself against his breast. "I couldn't go without seeing you again," she panted. "After I left you, and got into bed, I began to think all sorts of dreadful things about you. You acted so strangely. And then I felt ashamed of myself, felt I must come and beg your pardon. And—and—here I am. Are you glad?"
His laugh was answer enough. He took her in his arms, carried her up to the sitting room, set her down on the sofa. "How light you are!" he cried. "But how strong—I've seen you swing Winchie to your shoulder as if he were nothing at all. Now—please—won't you let your hair down? There never was such hair as yours."
She sat up, let the cloak fall away. The moon was flooding the room. As she sat there, with eyes sparkling and small, sensitive face shy-bold, she looked as if she had sprung to mortal life from an old folk song about loreleis and nymphs and enchanted princesses. "You floated in on the moonbeams," he declared. "I'm afraid, if I don't shut the window, you'll flit away."
"That'd not stop me," laughed she. And she began to take her hair down. Just as it was about to unroll, she paused. "Wouldn't you like to take it down yourself?"
He went round behind her, drew out the hairpins one by one, fumbling softly, lingeringly for them, keeping them carefully. Her hair loosened, uncoiled, fell about her in a shimmering veil. "Oh, my love!" he cried. "My beautiful Courtney!" And he took the soft, perfumed veil in his hands, kissed it again and again, buried his face in it, wrapped her head and his together in it.
She laughed delightedly, then drew away, looking at him with mock severity. "And where, sir, did you learn how to make a woman so happy?"
"What things youdosay!" he laughed, just a little bit scandalized. "I might ask the same question of you."
"And I can answer it—" with a mocking smile—"without evasion. Imagination. I've so often thought—and thought—and thought—what I would be to a man I freely loved—one I wasn't afraid of scandalizing. Oh, I know I shock you—for there's a great deal you've yet to learn about women—that they're human, just like men. But you'll learn—and then I think you'll see I'm good—for I am. I couldn't be bad—hate anyone—play mean tricks, say or do mean things. Don't you wish I were tall—wish there were more of me?"
"I couldn't live through it."
"And you really—really—love me?"
He held her tightly by the shoulders, gazed into her eyes. "So much that, if you were untrue to me, I'd kill you."
"Now, what made you think of that?"
"I don't know."
Thoughtfully: "I guess it is because I'm giving myself to you when I am—am— Now, there you go, shocked again."
He laughed recklessly. "Give me time," said he, "and I'll get used to it. You say you'd rather I showed just how I felt than locked it away and pretended."
"Yes—yes—a thousand times! I don't mind your being shocked—not really." With a queer little laugh, "I'm shocked myself. Somehow I seem to delight in shocking myself—and you. Loving you is—all sorts of pleasures and pains. I want them all!"
"All!" he echoed. "Yes—all!"
Midway in her embrace she stopped him, pushed him laughingly away with, "But you weren't quite frank a while ago."
"When?"
"There at the lake."
"Why do you think so?"
"Did you ever see one of those little toy spaniels—how they quiver and shiver all the time? I'm just as sensitive as that. You mustn't try to deceive me—ever! You mustn't say or act any of those hypocrisies of what some people call good taste, either. They're not necessary with me. They'd make me feel deceived. I might not confess I knew—and then—'The little rift within the lute.'"
"I guess I'll tell you," he said for the moment deeply impressed. "Yes, I will."
"Tell me everything—everything. There mustn't be any concealment—anything to lie hid away in the depths of some dark closet to rot and rot and infect the whole house." She suddenly lowered her head; and, as the full meaning of her words, the meaning she had not foreseen, reached him, he, too, became ill at ease.
Presently he said: "I didn't want to frighten you needlessly. When I saw Nanny—she was—just going up the steps of the porch."
Courtney's eyes widened and her face blanched. "You think—" she began when she could find voice.
"I couldn't tell which direction she had come from," he replied. "But it's no matter. She couldn't know."
Courtney remembered the darkness—how grateful she had been for its friendly aid. "No," said she resolutely. "She couldn't know."
"Certainly not," echoed he, as if the idea that she could were absurd. "But it made me realize how careful we must be."
"Yes," replied she thoughtfully. "Yes." And she was clinging to him, was sobbing. "Oh, my love—my love—I don't care what comes, if only it does not separate us.... Look! Look!" she cried, pointing out into the sky. "Dawn! I must fly. Wherearemy slippers!"
He found them for her, put them on, bundled her into her cloak, picked her up, and hurried downstairs with her. "I'm not so little," said she. "It's because you're so big and strong. One kiss—quick!"
He kissed her—on the lips and, as she turned to go, again on the nape of the neck. "Day after to-morrow!" he cried.
"Yes, I'll come here at nine, rain or shine."
And she ran along the path. The moon had set; it was intensely dark. Arriving within sight of the house she stopped short. There were lights, upstairs and down, shadows of moving figures on the curtains. "God!" she ejaculated. "WhatshallI do!" And for the first time the great fear—the fear a woman has when she thinks she has lost her reputation—buried its talons in her throat and its beak in her heart. Do? Face it! She lifted her head high, gathered herself together, advanced boldly. As she entered the front door she ran into Nanny.
"What's the meaning of this?" she demanded. In the same instant her courage fled and she leaned faint against the wall. "Winchie!" she gasped. "Has something happened to him?"
Nanny was standing stiffly with eyes down—a sullen figure, accusing, contemptuous. But she answered respectfully enough if surlily: "Winchie missed you and came up and waked me and Mazie just now."
Down the stairs came the boy, sobbing, shouting, "Mamma! Mamma! I lost you."
Courtney caught him up, hugged him, kissed him. "You silly baby!" she cried, laughing. "What a fuss about nothing. Put out the lights, Nannie." Halfway up the stairs she hesitated. Would it be more natural to make an explanation or to say nothing? She decided it was best, more like her usual self, to say nothing. "Put out the lights and go to bed," she repeated.