There are times in life, especially when one is young, that high peaks are the only landmarks in sight. Priscilla Glenn felt that henceforth her Road was to be a highway constructed in such a fashion that airy bridges would connect the lofty altitudes, and all below would exist merely as views.
Her first thought, on the day following her interview with Margaret Moffatt, was to get to John Boswell, and, as she laughingly put it, pay off her debts!
Two hundred dollars and a full month's money from St. Albans! Gordon Moffatt certainly could not feel richer than she. And then the months ahead! Well—one could get dizzy on one's own heights. So Priscilla calmed herself by a day of strenuous shopping and looked forward to the evening with Boswell.
A dim drizzle set in late in the afternoon, and there was a chill in the air that penetrated sharply. The mist transformed everything, and, to tired, overexcited nerves, the real had a touch of the unreal. The park glistened: the tender new green on tree, bush, and grass looked as if it had just been polished, and the early flowers stood crisply on their young stalks.
At the point where once she had met poor Jerry-Jo McAlpin, Priscilla paused and was taken into control by memory and the long-ago Past. Quite unaccountably, she longed to have her mother, even her father, know of her wellbeing. Surely they would forgive everything if they knew just how things had turned out for her! She almost wished she had decided to go back to the In-Place before she started on her trip abroad. She could have made them understand about her and poor Jerry-Jo. Was old Jerry waiting and waiting? Something clutched Priscilla sharply. The loneliness and silence of the Place Beyond the Winds enfolded her like a compelling dream. How they could patiently wait, those home folks of hers! And how dear they suddenly became, now that she was going into the new life that promised her her Heart's Desire!
Then she decided: since she could not go to them she must write to Master Farwell, he had never answered her last letter, and beg him to tell them all about it. He would go, she felt sure, and, by some subtle magic, she seemed to see him passing along the red-rock road, his long-caped coat flapping in the soft wind, his hair blowing across his face, the dogs following sociably. He'd go first to old Jerry's, and then afterward, an hour, maybe, for it would be hard for Jerry McAlpin—he would go to Lonely Farm by way of the wood path that led by the shrine in the open place—was the skull still there with the long-dead grasses in its ears? It would be night, perhaps, when the master reached the farm; maybe the star would be shining over the hemlock——
At this point Priscilla paused and caught her breath sharply. She had come out of the park by the gateway opposite Boswell's apartment, and just ahead of her, across the street, was a thin, stooping figure with caped coat flapping in the rising wind, and hair blowing across a bent face.
"I—I am dreaming!" The words came brokenly. "I am bewitched!"
But with characteristic quickness of thought and action she put her doubt to the test. Running across the space between her and that slow-stepping figure she panted huskily:
"Master Farwell! Master Farwell!"
He turned and fixed his deep, haunting eyes upon her.
"It's Priscilla Glenn!" he whispered, as if to reassure himself; "little Priscilla of the In-Place."
By some trick of over-stimulated imagination Priscilla tried to adjust the gentle, kindly man she knew and loved to the strange creature into which he had evolved since last she met him, but she could not! To her he would always be the friend and helper, the understanding guide of her stormy girlhood. The rest was but shadows that came and went, cast by happenings with which she had nothing to do.
They were holding each other's hands under the window from which Boswell was, perhaps, at that very moment watching and waiting.
"Oh! my Master Farwell!" The tears rolled from the glad eyes. "I did not know how far and how sadly I had gone until this minute!"
"But you have not forgotten to be little Priscilla Glenn. My dear! My dear! how glad and thankful I am to see you. You have grown—yes; you have grown into the woman I knew you would. Your eyes are—faithful; your lips still smile. Oh! Priscilla, the world has not"—he paused and his old, quivering laugh rang out cautiously—"the world has not—doshed you!"
And then Priscilla caught him by the arm.
"You have not seen—him?" she looked upward.
"No. I was getting up my courage. The bird just freed from its cage—is timid."
"Come! A minute will not matter. I must know about my home people."
They walked on together. Then, because her heart was beating fast and the tears lying near, she drew close to her deepest interest by a circuitous way.
"Tell me of—of Mrs. McAdam and Jerry McAlpin?"
"Mrs. McAdam is famous and rich. The White Fish Lodge has a waiting list every summer. The—the body of Sandy drifted into the Channel a month after you left. Bounder found it. You remember how he used to know the sound of Sandy's engine? The day the body was washed up he—seemed to know. One grave is filled, and Mary McAdam has put a monument between the two graves with the names of both boys. Jerry McAlpin has grown old and—and respectable. He has a fancy that Jerry-Jo will come back a fine gentleman. All these years he has been preparing for the prodigal. The young devil has never sent a line to his father. A bad lot was Jerry-Jo."
And then Priscilla told her story with many a catch in her voice.
"You see—he did it for me, Master Farwell. He was not all bad. Who is, I wonder? He lies in a quiet spot Mr. Boswell and I found far out in the country. There's a hemlock nearby and a glimpse of water. I—I think I will not let old Jerry know. While he waits, he is happy. While he is getting ready, life will mean something to him. And oh! Master Farwell, when—when Jerry-Jo went, he thought he was going through the Secret Portage to the Big Bay. I believe he will—welcome his father in the open some day. I will not send word back to the In-Place."
Farwell frowned.
"Boswell has touched you with his fanciful methods," he muttered; "is it—for the best?"
"I am sure it is. And—my—my people, Master Farwell, my mother?"
At this Farwell started and stepped back. The light from an electric lamp fell full on the girl's quivering, brilliant face. He had told Boswell of the mother's death.
"You—you did not know?" he asked. "She died——"
"Died? Master Farwell, my mother dead!"
"You see—how it hurts when Boswell plays with you?"
A note of bitterness crept into the voice.
"When the day of reckoning comes—it hurts, it hurts like—hell!"
He had forgotten the girl, the white, frantic face.
"Tell me, tell me when she, my poor mother, died?"
The words brought him back sharply, and with wonderful tenderness he told her.
"Long Jean was with her. She would have her and no other, because she said Jean had helped you into the world and only she should help her out. It is a beautiful story they tell in Kenmore of your mother's passing. She thought she was going to you. She seemed quite happy once she found the way!
"'I have found her!' she cried just at the last, 'and she—understands!'"
"And I did, I did!" sobbed Priscilla.
A passerby noticed the sound and paused to look at the two sharply.
"Come, come," Farwell implored her; "we will arouse suspicion. Let us get back to—to Boswell. I haven't much time, you see. I have promised Pine to be back in ten days. Ten days!"
"You promised—Pine?"
"And you never knew?" Farwell gave an ugly laugh. "Well, I carried the ball and chain without a whimper, I can say that for myself. Pine is my ball and chain. Because he isn't all devil, because he knows I am not, he went off to play on Wyland Island. You know they kill the devil there the second week in June. Have you forgotten? Well, Pine has gone to take a stab at satan, and I'm free—for ten days. Free!"
"And then?"
"And then I'm going back voluntarily, and—assume the ball and chain!"
"Master Farwell!"
"Do not pity me! It doesn't matter now. I only wanted to—settle with Boswell. I've been in town—three days."
They were nearing the big apartment house; lights from the windows were showing cheerily through the misty fog. A chill fear shook Priscilla as she began to comprehend the meaning of Farwell's words. In her life Boswell, and this man beside her, stood for friendship in its truest, highest sense, and she felt that she must hold them together in spite of everything. She stood still and gripped Farwell's arm.
"You—you shall not go to him," she whispered, "until you tell me—how you are to pay him—for what he has done!"
Farwell's white, grim face confronted her.
"How does one pay another for lying to him, cheating him, and—and playing with him as though he were an idiot or a child?"
"Why did he do it, Master Farwell, why did he do it?"
"Because——" But for very shame Farwell hesitated. "It makes no difference," he muttered. "I'm no fool and Boswell shall find it out."
"He has told me—the story." Priscilla still stayed the straining figure. "All his life he has given and given to you all that was in his power to give. He is the noblest man I ever knew, the gentlest and kindest, and I never knew a man could love another as he has loved you. What have you given to him—really? The smiles and jokes of the days long ago that were heavenly to him—what did they cost you? He gave, and gave his heart's best; he lied and cheated you, that you might have—some sort of peace in—in Kenmore. Oh! if you only knew how he has hated it all, how he has struggled to keep up the play even when he was so weary that the soul of him almost gave out! And now you come to—to pay him with hate and revenge when you have the only thing he wants in all the world at your command—to give him!"
The impassioned words fell into silence; the uplifted face with its shining eyes, mist-wet and indignant, aroused Farwell at last.
"And that is?" he asked.
"Yourself! your faith! See, that is his light. He is waiting—for me, because, since you sent me to him, he has been kind, heavenly kind to me, for your sake! Everything is, has always been, for your sake. Go to him, Master Farwell—go alone. I will come by and by; not now. Pay him for all he has done for you—all these lonely years!"
Farwell no longer struggled. He took Priscilla's hands in a long, close clasp.
"What a woman you have become, Priscilla Glenn! Thank you."
Without a word more they parted: Farwell to go to the reckoning; Priscilla to walk in the mist for a bit longer.
All that occurred in Boswell's library Priscilla was never to know.
There had been a moment of shock when Boswell, raising his eyes to greet Priscilla, saw Farwell Maxwell standing in the doorway.
"You have come!" Boswell gasped, with every sacred thing at stake.
"I—have come."
"For—what—Max?"
"To—to thank you, if I can. To—to tell you my story."
In the outer room Toky artistically held the dinner back. The honourable master and his strange but equally honourable friend must not be disturbed. Something was happening; but after a time Boswell laughed as Toky had never heard him laugh; so it was well, and the dinner could bide its time.
Then Priscilla came, wet and white-faced, but with the "shine-look" in her eyes that Toky, despite his prejudices and profession, had noted and respected.
"We will have the dinner now, Mees?" as if Toky ever considered her to that extent!
"I will—see Mr. Boswell."
"He has—honourable friend."
"My friend, Toky. The honourable friend is mine, also! And, oh! the flowers, Toky! There are no roses like the June roses. How wonderfully you have arranged them! A rose should never be crowded."
Toky grinned helplessly.
"Tree hours I take to make—look beautifully. One hour for each—rosy. That why it look beautifully."
"Yes, that is why it looks—beautifully. Three hours and—you, Toky!"
Boswell and Farwell were sitting in front of the grate, upon which the wood lay ready to light. Their faces were pale and haggard, but their eyes turned to Priscilla without shame or doubt.
"There is much—to talk about," said Boswell with his ready friendliness; "Max—your Farwell and mine—has told me——"
"After dinner, dear friends. I am hungry, bitterly hungry and—cold!"
"Cold?"
"Yes; see, I am going to set the wood to burning. By the time we come back the room will be ready for us."
"To be sure!" Boswell sidled from his deep chair, the pinched look on his face relaxing.
"A fire, to be sure. Now, Max, no one but a woman would have thought of a fire in June."
"No one but Priscilla!" Farwell added.
They talked before the fire until late that evening. Priscilla's plans were discussed and considered. So full was she of excitement and joy that she did not notice the shock of surprise that Farwell showed when the names of Ledyard and Travers passed her lips. Seeing that she either did not connect the men with her past, or had reasons for not referring to it, Farwell held his peace. It was long afterward that he confided his knowledge to Boswell, and that wise friend bade him keep his secret.
"It's her life, and she's treading her Road," he said; "she has an odd fancy that her Heart's Desire lies just ahead. I cannot see that either you or I have the right to awaken her to realities while she lives so magically in her dreams."
After Priscilla's own plans were gone over and over again, Boswell said quietly:
"I'm going back to that blessed In-Place of yours, Butterfly. You remember how I told you, the first day I met you, that I could not understand any one choosing the dangerous Garden when he might have—the Place Beyond the Winds?"
Priscilla leaned forward, her breath coming sharply.
"You mean—you are going to—to live in Kenmore?"
"Yes!Live!That is a bright way of putting it. Live! live! The Beetle is—going to live!"
Priscilla looked about at the rich comfort of the room, thought of what it meant to the delicate cripple crouching toward the blaze, his deep eyes flame-touched and wonderful. Then she looked at Master Farwell, whose lips were trembling.
"He—he calls that—living!" he said slowly. "Tell him, Priscilla, of the bareness and hardness of the life. I have tried to, but he will not listen."
The tears, the ready, easy tears filled Priscilla's eyes, and her heart throbbed until it hurt.
"He will love the hemlocks and the deep red rocks," she said, as if speaking to herself; "he will love the Channel and the little islands, he will love the woods—and the wind does not blow hard there—he will be glad of that."
"But the ugly, wretched bareness of my hut, Priscilla! For heaven's sake, make him see that!"
"But the—fireplace, Master Farwell!"
"And—the friend beside it!" Boswell broke in; "and no more loneliness. A beetle that has crawled in the Garden so long will thank God for a real place—of its own. 'Tis but a change of scene for the Property Man."
"I love the Garden!" murmured Priscilla, sitting between the two men, her clasped hands outstretched toward the fire, which was smouldering ruddily.
"That is because you have wings, Butterfly," Boswell whispered.
"And no fetter on your soul," Farwell said so softly that only Boswell heard.
"I see," Priscilla childishly wandered on, "such a lovely trail leading, leading—where?"
"Where, indeed?" Boswell was watching her curiously.
"That is the beauty of it! I cannot see beyond the next step. All my life I have tried to keep my yearnings within bounds; now I—just follow. It's very, very wonderful. Some day I am going back to the In-Place. I shall find you both sitting by Master Farwell's beautiful fire, I am sure. It will be the still morning time, I think, and you will be so glad to see me, and I shall tell you—all about it!"
"Heaven keep you!"
Boswell's voice was solemn and deep.
"Life will keep her safe," Farwell said with a laugh. "Life will take no liberties with her. She got her bearings, Jack, before the winds knocked her. Let us both walk home with her. What sort of a night is it?"
Priscilla went to the window.
"It's rather black," she returned; "as black as the big city ever is. The mist is clearing; it's a beautiful night."
"Of course," Priscilla leaned back in her deep-cushioned chair and laughed from sheer delight, "I was a better girl in my former life than I ever had any idea of, or I wouldn't have been given this——"
She and Margaret Moffatt were sitting on the piazza of a little Swiss inn. Below them lay a tiny lake as blue and as clear as a rare gem; round about them towered snowy peaks, protectingly. All that was past—was past! There did not seem to be any future; the present was sufficient.
"I think you must have been rather a good child, back there," Margaret Moffatt said, looking steadfastly at the girl near her; "and, anyway, you ought to have a rich reward for your hair if for no other reason."
"A recompense, you mean?"
"Heavens! no! I was thinking, as I often do when I see the lights in your hair, that for making people so cheerful and contented nothing is too good for you. I'm extremely fond of you, Priscilla Glynn! It's only when you put on your cap and apron manner that I recall—unpleasant things. Just tuck them out of sight and let us forget everything but—this! Isn't it divine?"
"It's—yes, it is divine, Miss Moffatt."
"Now then! Along with the cap and apron, please pack away Miss Moffatt and Miss Glynn. Let us be Priscilla and Margaret. This is a whim of mine, but I have a fancy for knowing what kind ofgirlswe are. No one can tamper with us here. Dear old Mousey never gets above a dead level, or below it. Practically we are alone and detached. Let us play—girls! Nice, chummy girls. Do you know, I never had a friend in my life who wasn't labelled and scheduled? I was sent to school where just such and such girls were sent—girls proper for me to know. Often they were not, but that was not considered so long as they wore their labels. It wasn't deemed necessary for me, or my kind, to go to college: our lines of action were chosen for us. Certain labelled men were presented; always labels, labels! Even when I was running about with my label on I used to have mad moments of longing to snatch all the hideous things off—my own as well as others—and find out the truth! And here we are, you and I! I do not want to know anything about you; I want to find out for myself, in my own way. I want you to forget that I ever wore a tag. Did you ever have a girl chum?"
"I think I know, now," Priscilla said quietly, "why this particular little heaven was given to me. I never, in all my life, had a girl friend. Think of that! I did not realize what I was missing until I—came into your life. Actually, I never had a girl or woman friend in the sense you mean. I was a lonely, weird little child; and then I—I came to the training school; and the girls there did not like me—I was still weird——"
"Now, Priscilla, I do not want to know anything more about you! I intend to find you out for myself. Come, there's a boat down there, big enough for you and me. Do you row?"
"Yes, and paddle."
"You lived near the water! Ha! ha!"
"And you do—not row, Margaret?"
"No."
"Then you have never lived at all. You must learn to use oars and a paddle. It's when you have your own hand on the power that makes you go—that you live."
Margaret Moffatt turned and looked at Priscilla.
"You say, haphazard, the most Orphic things. There are times when I can imagine you before some shrine making an offering and chanting all sorts of uncanny rites. Of course it is when one has her hand on her own tiller, and is heading for what she wants, that she begins to—live. I declare, I haven't felt so young in—twenty years! I'm twenty-five, Priscilla. My father considers me on the danger-line. Poor daddy!"
"I'm——"
"I do not want to know your age, Priscilla. Mythological characters are ageless."
Those were the days when Priscilla Glenn and Margaret Moffatt found their youth. Safeguarded by the faithful old housekeeper, who, happily, could understand and sympathize, they played the hours away like children.
"We'll travel by and by," promised Margaret. "It's rather selfish for me to hold you here when all the world would be fresh to you."
"I take root easily," Priscilla returned, "and I'm like a plant we have in my old home. My roots spread, and time is needed to strengthen them; suddenly I shoot up and—flower. The little Canadian blossom doesn't seem to justify the strong, spreading roots. I hope you will not find me disappointing, Margaret."
Margaret Moffatt smiled happily.
"Just to think," she said, "that my real self and your real self were waiting for us here behind the white hills! All along, through generations and generations, they have been acquainted and have loved and trusted each other, and then we, the unreal selves, came! Sometimes I wonder"—Margaret looked dreamy—"what they think of us, just between themselves? I am sure your true self must be prouder of you than mine can be of me, for, with everything at my command, what am I? While you—oh, Priscilla, how you have made everything tell!"
But Priscilla shook her head.
"Still," Margaret went on, "things were not at my command. They were all there, but pigeon-holed and controlled. Such and such things were for nice little girls like me! After a time I got to believe that, and it was only when, one day, I touched something not intended for me that my soul woke up. Priscilla, did you ever feel your soul?"
"Yes."
"Isn't it wonderful? It makes you see clearly your—your——"
"Ideal?" suggested Priscilla.
"Yes; the thing you want to be; the thing that seems best toyouwithout the interpretation of others. It stands unclouded and holy; and nothing else matters."
"And you never forget—never!"
"No. Your eyes may be blinded for a moment, but you do not forget—ever!"
They were out on the gemlike lake now, and Priscilla was sternly instructing Margaret how to handle an oar.
"It will never go the way you want it to," Margaret protested, making an ineffectual dab at the water.
"When it does you will know the bliss! Get a little below the surface, and have faith in yourself."
And that was the day that Priscilla caught a new light on Margaret's character. They landed at a tiny village across the lake and wandered about, Margaret talking easily to the people in their own tongue, Priscilla straining to follow by watching faces and gestures. While they stood so, discussing the price of some corals, a little child came close to them and slipped a deliciously dimpled, but very dirty little hand in Margaret's. At the touch the girl started, turned first crimson and then pale, and looked down. Suddenly her eyes deepened and glowed.
"The darling!" she whispered, and bent to catch what the child was saying. Presently she looked up, tears dimming her eyes, and said to Priscilla, "She says a new baby came to their house last night. She wanted to tell—me!"
"And ten already have been there," broke in a brown-faced native woman.
"But she is glad, and she wantedmeto know! Come, my sweet, tell me more about the baby, and then we will go and see it."
They sat down under a clump of trees, and the dirty little maid nestled close to Margaret, while with uplifted head and unabashed confidence she told of the mystery.
Priscilla watched Margaret Moffatt's face. She was almost awed by the change that had come over it. The aloofness and pride which often marked it had disappeared as if by magic; the tenderness, passionate in its intentness, cast upon the little child, moved her to wonder and admiration. Later they went to the poor hovel and bent beside the humble bed on which the mother and child lay. Then it was that Priscilla played her part and made comfortable and grateful the overburdened creature, worn and weak from suffering.
"'Twas the good God who sent you," murmured she.
"'Twas your little maid," smiled Margaret, tucking a roll of bills under the hard, lumpy pillow. "Take time to love the babies—leave other things—but love them and enjoy them."
"Yes, my lady."
On the way back in the boat Margaret was very silent for a time as she watched Priscilla row; finally she said:
"Did it surprise you—my show of feeling for the—the child?"
"It was very beautiful. I did not know you cared so much for children, and this one was so—dirty."
"But so real! You see I have never had real children in my life. The kinds passed out to nice girls like me were sad travesties. Since I saw the darling of to-day I've been wondering—do not laugh, Priscilla—but I've been wondering what poor, cheated little morsel of humanity, in the unreal world, would find herself in that eleventh miracle of the wretched hovel? And what an art yours is, dear Priscilla! How you soothed away the suffering by your touch. I loved you better as I realized how that training of yours knows neither high nor low when it seeks to heal."
Priscilla thought of the operation on Margaret Moffatt's father, and her quick colour rose.
"And I loved you better when I saw how your humanity knows neither high nor low—just love!"
"Only toward little children. I cannot explain it, but when I touch the babies, their littleness and helplessness make me weak and trembling before—well, before the strength comes in a mighty wave. There is a physical sensation, a thrill, that comes with the first contact, and when they trust me, as that darling did this morning, I feel as if—God had singled me out! Only lately have I begun to understand what this means in me. It is one reason why I came away. I had to think it out. I suppose"—she paused and looked steadily at Priscilla—"I suppose the maternal has always been a master passion in me, and I've rebelled at being an only child; at having no children but the—specialized kind. I have been hungry for so many things I am realizing now."
"In my training I have seen—what you mean. All sorts drift in—to pay the price of love or the penalty of passion, as Doctor Ledyard used to express it; but"—and Priscilla's eyes grew darker—"I used to find—a nurse gets so much closer, you know, than a doctor can—I found that sometimes it was the penalty of love and the price of passion. Those sad young creatures, with only blind instinct to uphold them, were so—divinely human, and paid so superbly. When it comes to the hour of a life for a life, one thing alone matters, I am afraid, and it is the thingyoumean, Margaret."
"Yes. And what a horrible puzzle it all is. The thing I mean should be always there—always. The world's wrong when it is not."
Suddenly Priscilla, sending the light boat forward by the impulse of her last stroke, said, as if it were quite in line with all that had gone before:
"There's Doctor Travers on the wharf!"
He heard her, and called back:
"Quite unintentionally, I assure you. I was waiting for the boat to take me across. I've been wandering about, sleeping where I could. I simply find myself—here!"
At this both girls laughed merrily.
"This is the place of Found Personalities," Margaret Moffatt said, jumping lightly to the wharf. "Perhaps you'll come to the inn and have luncheon with us—that is, if you are sure Doctor Ledyard did not send you here to spy on me."
"I haven't seen him since I left America. My mother is with me; she's in a crack of the hills in Italy. She wanted to be alone. Doctor Ledyard will join us later."
"Then come to the house. They serve meals on a dangerously poised balcony over the lake; we curb our appetites for fear our weight may be the one thing the structure cannot stand. Our old housekeeper waits upon us, but is in no wise responsible for the food which is often very bad and lacking in nourishment."
"You seem to thrive on it." Travers looked at the two before him. "I wonder just what it is this air and place have done to you?"
"Tell him, Priscilla."
"Oh, like you, Doctor Travers, we simply found ourselves—here! That's all."
Travers did not leave the inn that night, nor for many days thereafter.
"Doctor Ledyard will join my mother and me early in August," he explained; "until then I'm a floating proposition. I wish you'd let me stay on a while, Miss Moffatt, right here. I want to analyze the food, it puzzles me. Why just this kind of conglomeration should achieve such results is interesting. I've gained five pounds in six days."
"And lost ten years," Margaret broke in. "I never thought of you as young, Doctor Travers; professional men never do seem youthful; buthereyou're rather a good sort."
And Travers remained, much to the delight of the old housekeeper, who, with a nurse and a doctor in command, cast all responsibility aside.
"Young Miss looks well," she confided to the proprietor's wife, who, fortunately, could understand a word or so of English; "but folks is like weather: the fairer they seem, the nearer a storm. When a day or a person looks uncommonly fair—a weather breeder, says I, and generally, nine times out of ten, I'm right. My young lady is too changed to be comfortable. It's either a breaking up, or——" But here a shout for "Mousey," silenced further prophecy.
The days ran along without cloud or shadow. Quite naturally, perhaps, Priscilla began to think that a drama of life was being enacted in the quiet, detached village. They three were always together, always enjoying the same things, but certainly no man, so she thought, could be with Margaret Moffatt long without falling at her feet. Gradually to Priscilla Glenn this girl stood for all that was fine and perfect. In her she saw all women as women should be. With the adoration she was so ready to give to that which appealed to her, Priscilla lavished the wealth of her affection upon Margaret Moffatt. Surely it was because of Margaret that Doctor Travers stayed on, and became the life of the party. To be sure he was tact itself in making Priscilla feel at ease; but that only confirmed her in her belief that he wanted to please Margaret to the uttermost. Often Priscilla recalled, with keener appreciation, John Boswell's description of Anton Farwell's conception of friendship. In like manner Margaret Moffatt claimed for her companion all that justly belonged to herself. Dispassionately, vicariously, Priscilla learned to know and admire the man who undoubtedly in time would win her one friend. It was all beautiful and natural, and in the lovely detachment it grew and grew. The long walks and drives, the rows upon the lake by sunlight and moonlight, all conspired to perfect the comradeship. They read together, sang together—very poorly to be sure—and once, just to vary the charm, they travelled to a nearby town and danced at a village fête. An odd thing happened there. Owing to high spirits and a sense of unconventionality, they entered into the sports with abandon. Travers even begged a reel with a pretty Swiss maiden, and led her proudly away, much to Margaret's and Priscilla's delight. Later, the men and women of the place came forward, and, entering a little ring formed by admiring friends, performed, separately, the native dances.
Travers watched Priscilla with a puzzled look in his eyes. She trembled with excitement; seemed hypnotized by the exhibition, much of which was delightfully graceful and picturesque. Then, suddenly, to the surprise of every one, she took advantage of a moment's pause and ran into the ring.
"Whatever possesses her?" whispered Margaret to Travers; "she looks bewitched. See! she is—dancing!"
Travers watched the tall, slim figure in the thin white gown over which a light scarf, of transparent crimson, floated as the evening breeze and the girl's motions freed it. At first Priscilla took her steps falteringly, her head bent as if trying to recall the measure and rhythm; then with more confidence she swung into the lovely pose and action. With uplifted eyes and smiling lips, seeming to see something hidden from others, she bent and glided, curtesied and tripped, this way and that.
The lookers-on were wild with delight. The beauty of the thing itself, the willingness of the foreigners to join in the sport, aroused the temperamental enthusiasm, and the clapping and cheering filled the hall with noise. Suddenly the musicians dropped their instruments. They were but human, and, since they could not keep in time with this new and amazing dance, they drew near to admire.
"Play!" pleaded Priscilla, past heeding the sensation she was creating. "The best is yet to come!"
Carried out of himself, entering now wholly into the adventure, Travers caught up a violin near him and sent the bow over the strings with a master touch. He hardly knew what he played; he was himself, carried away on a wave of enchantment.
"Ah!"
The word escaped Priscilla like a cry of glad response.
"Now!"
They two, the musician and the dancer, seemed alone in the open space. The flashing eyes, the cheering voices, the clapping hands, even Margaret Moffatt, pale, puzzled, yet charmed, were obliterated. It was spring time in the Place Beyond the Winds, and the dance of adoration was in full swing, while the old tune, never out of time with the graceful, whirling form, played on and on. And then—the ring melted away, the lights grew dim, and Priscilla stood still.
"I'm—I'm tired," faltered she. A hand was laid upon her arm, some one guided her out of the heated, breathless room; they were alone, she and he, under wide-spreading trees, and a particularly lovely star was pulsing overhead.
"You are crying!" Travers's voice was low and tense. "Why?"
"It—it was the music! It was like something I had heard, and—and I was so tired. I was very foolish. Can you, can Margaret, forgive me?"
"Forgive you? Why, you were—I dare not tell you what you were! Here, sit down. Do not tremble so! Tell me, where did you learn to dance as you do?"
Priscilla had dropped upon the rough rustic seat; she did not seem to notice the hand that rested upon her clasped ones under the thin scarf. She no longer cried, but the tears shone on her long lashes.
"I—I never learned. It—it is I, myself. I thought I had grown into something else, but—I shall always be the same—when I let myself go."
"Let yourself go? Good heavens! Why not let yourself go—forever?" Travers's voice shook. "You have brought joy and youth to us all—to me, who never had youth. What—who are you?" he laughed boyishly. She sat rigidly erect and turned her sad eyes upon him.
"I'm Priscilla Glynn—a nurse! And you? Oh! you are Doctor Travers! Can you not see my beautiful, happy, happy life is ended—must end? Margaret, you, everything this joyous summer has made me—forget. Soon I am going back—where there is no dancing!"
"And—cease to be yourself?"
"Yes. But I shall always remember. Not many have had the wonderful glimpse I have had—not many."
"I—I will not let you go back! You belong in the light; in love and the giving of love. You have given me a glimpse of myself—as I should be. I have stayed in this magic place without a past and a future—for your sake! I see it now. I love——"
"Oh! please, please stop. We are both mad, and when to-morrow comes and the day after, and the day after that, we will both be sorry, and, oh! I want all my life to—to—be glad because of this night."
"You shall—remember it—all your life as—your happiest night, if I can make it so!"
His face was bent close to hers. For the first time Travers was overpowered by the charm of woman, and all the pent passion and love of his life broke bonds like a wild, primeval thing that education and conventions had never touched.
"I—I want you! I want you without knowing any more than if you and I had been born anew in this wonderful life. Look at me! You believe I can offer you—the one perfect gift a man should offer a woman?"
She looked long and tenderly in his eyes. She was—going to leave him; she could afford the truth. She was brave now.
"Yes," she whispered.
"And I know you to be—what I want. Isn't that enough? Can we not trust each—for the rest?"
"Yes, if the white hills could shut us forever from the other things."
"Other things?"
"Yes, the things of to-morrow. Duty, the demands that lie—over the Alps."
"I—renounce them all!"
"But they will not renounce us!"
Travers felt her slipping from him. A man whose youth has been denied, as his had, is a puppet in Fate's hands when youth makes its claims.
"I—mean to have you! Do you hear me? I mean to have you."
And just then Margaret Moffatt drew near. Calmly, smilingly, she came like one playing her part in a perfectly arranged drama.
"You are here? Ready for home? Wasn't it sublime and exactly as it should be? We are so nice and friendly with our real selves."
There was no surprise; no suggestion of disapproval. The world in which they were all playing could have only direct and simple processes. But, having lived in a past world where her perceptions had been made keen and vital, Margaret Moffatt understood what she saw. She had noticed every letting down and abandonment of Travers since he had joined them. She was too wise not to know the effect of such a woman as Priscilla upon such a man; such a denied and almost puritanical man as Travers. She knew his story from her father. An artistic triumph was hers that night. The splendid elements of primitive justice had been set in motion, and almost gleefully she wondered what they would do with Richard Travers and Priscilla Glynn.
For herself? Well, she had put herself to the test and had come out clear-visioned and glad to a point of dangerous excitement. Only two or three mighty things mattered, if one were to gain in the marvellous game. She meant to hold to them and let the rest go!
But Travers had not passed through Ledyard's school and come out untouched. After leaving Priscilla, silent and white, he had gone to his room and flung himself down upon a low couch by the window. Then his old self took him in hand while he stubbornly resisted every attack that reason, as trained by Ledyard, made upon him.
"Think of—your mother! What has she not done and suffered that you might stand before the world—a free man? And your profession; your future! They are all your mother holds to for her peace and joy. And I? Well, I do not claim anything for myself; but you know the game as well as I. If you toss to the winds all that has been gained for you, professionally and socially, you are done for! Your renunciation and restraint, what have they amounted to, unless you accept them as stepping-stones and go—on?"
And then Travers clenched his hands and had his say.
In that moment his own mother rose clear and radiant beside him and made her appeal. She pleaded for justice, but she showed mercy. He must not forget or forego anything that had been gained for him; but he was her child, the child of her love—unasking, unfettered love—and the passion that was throbbing in him was pure and instinctive; he must not deny it or the rest would be shucks! Non-essentials must not hamper him. Alone, unsought, a strange and compelling force had made him captive. All that others, and himself, had achieved for him must make holy this simple but all-powerful desire.
Then she faded, that poor, little, half-forgotten mother! But she left, like the fragrance of rare flowers that had been taken from the dim, moon-lighted room, a memory of happiness and sweetness and content.
By all the deductions of experience the three people in the little inn should have, in the light of the morning after, been reduced to common sense; but the day laughed common sense to scorn and fanned the fires of the previous evening to bright flame.
"I must write a letter," announced Margaret after breakfast, "a letter so momentous that it will take me—an hour and a half! But my plans and yours are all laid. Now, Priscilla, none of your cap and apron look. You'll do exactly what I tell you to do; and you, too, Doctor Travers."
"I haven't the slightest intention of disobeying. And as for my cap and apron, I've burned them!" Priscilla tossed her head.
Travers looked at her, and her loveliness seemed enhanced in her trim white linen gown with its broad collar of Irish lace. How magnificent her throat was! What a perfect woman she was! Andwhathair!
"There is a train that leaves here at nine-thirty, a mad little ramshackle train that goes to The Ghost and back in an hour and a half. We've all yearned to climb The Ghost, or as much of it as we dared. Now you two, with Mousey and a servant, are to go on the nine-thirty. I'll finish my destruction of the social system and catch the eleven o'clock train. We'll have picnic lunch. They say there's a dreadful cavern at the base of The Ghost that is corking for picnics, and then we'll explore until we have to return. Any objections?"
There were none.
"Very well! It's nine now! Priscilla, wear the roughest, heaviest things you've got. You always have your hours of remorse too late. The Ghost will chill your blood."
When the little party reached the small station at the mountain foot the servants started at once to the cavern to build a fire and prepare for the luncheon.
"Let us walk a bit up the trail," suggested Travers. "I always feel like the Englishman who said the views halfway up a mountain are more enjoyable than those on top. At least, you have life enough left to enjoy them. This particular trail is a mighty wicked one. There ought to be guides, for safety. I know the way perfectly; my mother and I once stayed here some years ago. She meant to come here this summer early, but has decided to wait until Doctor Ledyard joins us. I feel as if I were taking the cream off the thing. Will you trust me—Priscilla?"
There was challenge and command in the use of her name.
"Absolutely."
"Come, then! I want you to go first. The rise is easy for a half-mile or so. I can better watch out for you and catch you—if you make a misstep. The stones are loose and mischievous; the path is ridiculously near the edge of things. If one should—now do not get nervous, but if you should go over, just clutch the bushes, the sturdy little clumps, and nothing can really happen."
"I never get nervous in high places. Being used to dead levels, I have the courage of the ignorant. Doesn't the air make one——"
"Heady?"
"Yes. I suppose that is it. Heady and—light-hearted."
Travers had his eyes fixed on the form ahead in its dark blue mountain skirt and corduroy waist.
"I wish you would take off your hat," he said.
Priscilla obeyed.
"Thank you! Will you let me—love you?"
He noticed a tremor run the length of her body.
"Is—that in my giving?" Priscilla meant to play just a little longer, only a little, and then she must make him see that because this sudden and great thing had come to them both, they must prove themselves worthy of it by unselfish recognition of deep truths.
"No. But I would like to have you say—yes! I meant all I said last evening; you said nothing. I mean to have you, because I love you; because I know you love me, and because nothing else matters. It's only fair to warn you. Youdolove me?"
"Is it love—when everything else is swept aside?"
"Yes."
"All but the longing—for the best?"
"Yes. That is love."
"Then, I love you."
"On ahead there is a tiny bluff, do not speak again until we reach it. A strange and wonderful thing came to me there once—years ago. I want to tell you about it, my beloved!"
Travers watched her as he spoke. Again that tremor ran through Priscilla.
It was nearly noon when they stopped, at Travers's word. They had come, silently, up the trail, only their footsteps and their quicker breathing breaking the awesome stillness. Their separate thoughts were bringing them dangerously nearer together, trampling caution, warning, and purpose beneath their young yearning for the vital meaning of life. When they faced each other at last it was as if they had indeed been transfigured.
"Mine!" whispered Travers, stretching out his hands. "You are mine! Do not struggle."
Priscilla put her hands in his, but did not speak.
"And now let us sit here. I want you to understand. You will try to understand?"
"Yes."
All her life Priscilla was to look back on that moment as the first perfect one of her life. She felt no shame in taking it. It belonged to her, and she meant to prove herself to him.
"I feel as if there were a new heaven and a new earth, Priscilla, and that you and I had just been created—the first man, the first woman. Dear heart, rest your head, so, against my knee." He was sitting above her. "Your hair holds all the glory of the sunlight, and how white and warm your throat is!" His fingers touched it reverently. "Let us cling to this one hour that has given us to each other. Are you happy?"
"It means—something more than that—this moment——" Priscilla spoke as if held by a dream.
"You are—content?"
"Yes. That is it. I am—content. I shall never ask for anything more, anything better. I have everything—the world and—and God, has to give."
"My darling! Now let me tell you. Years ago I came here after a hard struggle for health. I had never had childhood or boyhood, in the real sense; but I was well at last! I saw that I was going to have a man's life, with all that that means, and for months the emotions and cravings, that generally go to the years of making a child and boy, had been crowding and pushing me to a sense of having been defrauded, and I meant to have my turn at last: my joy and pleasure. It seemed just and right to me that I should taste and revel in all that I had been deprived of. I had even been deprived of the longing, had not even had the glory of conquest. I had been such a meaningless creature, I thought I could afford even to be selfish. I shrank from beingdifferent—I had been forced to in the past—but I meant to make up for lost time and take my place among my fellows.
"One morning, just such a morning as this, I found myself alone—here! Then I had it out with myself. More distinctly than anything had ever come to me before I realized that life meant one thing, and one thing only: the biggest fight or the meanest defeat! I knew that every passion that burned and flayed me was a warhorse that, if controlled, would carry me safely through the battle; if succumbed to, would trample me under its relentless feet. This I knew with my brain, while tradition, inclination, and longing called me—fool! Well, I was given strength to follow my head; but every year has been a struggle. I found that to be different meant contempt often, misunderstanding always. Sometimes it has not seemed worth while; the victories were so lonely and useless; but I thanked God last night, when I saw your face as you danced, that I could offer you a love that need not make the pitiful plea for mercy from your love. Through temptation and the long fight it has always seemed to me that no man should ask for pure love without the equivalent to offer in return.
"Can you understand when I say that this battle of mine has brought me closer to men and women, with no bitterness in my heart; has left me free, not to despise them, but to help them?"
"Yes, oh, yes; all my life I could understand those who—fight. I, too, have fought and fought."
Travers's hand was pressing upward the head against his knee so that he could look in the uplifted eyes.
"My love! as free man and woman, let us give ourselves to each other!"
Then he bent and kissed the smiling mouth.
"Speak to me, my—wife."
"Yes! But let me think, dear heart. I must speak; the half has only been told." She moved a bit away from him. Travers let her go with no fear.
"Now, strange little thing, since you cannot speak in my arms, have your will!" he whispered.
"There is a to-morrow." The even voice had no strain of pain or sorrow in it. "And we must not forget that. We have played and played until we have made ourselves believe—such wonderful things; but to-morrow—we will wake up and be what we have been made! I have heard, oh! so many people, tell of your future, your honours. I have seen Doctor Ledyard's eyes upon you; I know you have a mother who adores you. I do not know your world; I could not touch your place but to mar it, and, because I love you so—oh! so absolutely, and because I would want, and must have, glory in my own love—we must stop playing! We have not"—and now the eyes dimmed—"we have not played for keeps!"
"You poor, little girl! How you use the old, foolish arguments, thinking yourself—wise. Do you imagine I could let you dim the sacred thing that has come to us—by such idle prating? There are only you and I and—the future. You darling child, come here!"
In reaching toward her, Travers's foot pressed too heavily against the stone upon which she sat; it moved, slipped, and Priscilla escaped his clutch. Not realizing her danger, she smiled up at him radiantly. She meant what she had said, but youth could not relinquish its rights without a struggle, and his eyes were so heavenly kind.
"My God! Clutch the bushes, Priscilla!"
"What—is the matter?" But with the question came the knowledge. She was going down, down, and every effort he made to save her sent her farther along the awful slope! She held to a nearby bush but uprooted it by the force with which she gripped it. Faster, faster, with that terrified face above her!
"My precious one! Try again! Do not be afraid!"
"No."
And then they both heard the hoarse whistle of the little shuttle train nearing The Ghost, with Margaret Moffatt on board!
Travers realized the new danger. Very steep was the grade of the mountain, and it ended on—the tracks!
He shut his eyes; he could do no more. Every move he made imperilled the woman he would give his life to save. The only comfort he knew was that he, too, was losing, losing. They would be together at the last.
Priscilla understood also. She looked up and saw him close his eyes; then fear fled, as it does when the last hope takes it. It would soon be over for them, and—nothing in all the world could separate them. There was nothing but him and her! He had seen that; but now she saw it, too. Him and her! him and her!
"I—love you so!" she whispered. "I am not afraid. I'm sorry. I would have given myself to you! I would indeed!"
She wanted him to know. He opened his eyes and smiled a twisted, hideous smile.
"I—meant—to have you." The words came to her faintly. A nearer shriek of the whistle, and a deafening clang of the bell! Some one at the throttle of the engine had an inspiration and sent the crazy thing shooting ahead.
Then it was past, and upon the tracks over which the car had but just gone lay Priscilla Glenn quite unconscious!
Travers came to himself at once, and took her head on his knee where but a short time ago it had lain so happily.
"You, Priscilla!" It was Margaret Moffatt who spoke. The train had stopped; the few passengers had come back to see what had happened.
"Yes; my God! Yes! Miss Moffatt, will you see if she is dead? I dare not trust—myself."
It was late that night, in Priscilla's room at the inn, that she and Margaret had their talk.
Priscilla lay upon her bed weak and bruised, but otherwise safe. Margaret sat beside her, her hand in Priscilla's.
"Doctor Travers has pulled himself together at last," she said. "I never saw a strong man so shattered. And you, dear, you are sure you have told me the truth—you are not suffering?"
"No, only a little dazed. That's natural after looking death in the face for hours and hours while everything slipped away from you—things you had always thought meant something."
"Yes, poor girl!"
"And they—meant nothing. They never do."
"No. You found that at death's door; I found it at life's. I want to tell you something, dear, that will make you forget yourself—and think of me. You are sure you cannot sleep?"
"I do not want to sleep."
"Priscilla, I have given myself to love! You can understand. Travers has just told me—about him and you!"
A faint colour touched the face on the pillow.
"It was the telling that brought him around. He's superb, and you're a daffy little goose, Cilla. Imagine a man like Travers letting a girl like you slip through his fingers."
"He did!" weakly interrupted Priscilla.
"But he followed you right down, and into—hell!"
"Into life and joy, you mean, Margaret—life!"
"Well, at any rate, he was with you. It is magnificent to see a man, or a woman, big enough, brave enough, and sensible enough to sweep the senseless rubbish of life aside, and get each other! Oh! it's life as God meant it. Priscilla, the letter I wrote to-day was to—myman. He's as splendid as yours. I told you once how I—I loved children. I had taken that love for granted until something happened. A friend of mine married—one of the girls my people thought was the kind for me to know. She didn't understand life any more than I did; she just took one of the men who wore the same label she did. Her child came—a year after; a horrible little creature—diseased; dreadful—can you understand?"
"Yes"—Priscilla had turned toward the girl by her side—"yes, I know what you mean. I have been a nurse."
"That was the first time things we should have known—were known by my friend and me!" Margaret's voice was low and hard.
"She—she cursed him, her husband—and left him! It was terrible! I was frightened, more frightened than I had ever been. Everything seemed tottering around me. I thought—I must die; I dared trust nothing. Just then—some one told me—he loved me; and I—I had loved him. But I was more afraid of him than of any one in God's world. I thought I was going mad, and then—I went to Doctor Ledyard and told him all about it. I just threw my whole burden of doubt and ignorance upon him—he is such agoodman! Sometimes I weep when I think of him. He was father, friend, and physician, all in one. He understood. He told me to go away; he got you for me. He told me to play like a little girl, with only the real and beautiful things of life; to forget the worries, and he would make sure!
"Priscilla, he has made sure! My love is safe. I can give myself to my love and let it have its way with me, and in the beautiful future, our future, his and mine, little children cannot—curse us by their suffering and deformity.
"Thismustbe the heritage a woman should be able to give her children, or she has no right to her own love. God has been so good to me—he has not asked for sacrifice; but"—here she spoke fiercely—"I was ready to sacrifice my love—for I had seen my friend's baby!
"I had never known God before as I know him now. He came to me with love and faith and my glorious life. Before, my God was a prayer-book God; a dead thing that only rustled when we touched him; and now, oh! Cilla, he is alive and breathing in good men and women, in little children, in all the beautiful, real things. They did not bury my God, or yours, long ago; they only set him free for us to find and love and follow."
They clung to each other in a passion of reverence and happiness, and then kissed each other good night.
"My girl," said Travers a week later, "how shall it be? May I tell every one how madly happy I am? May I take you to that little shrine a mile up the mountain yonder and make you—mine—and then show them allwhyI am so happy? Or——"
"Yes. Or——" Priscilla lay quite contentedly in his arms, her eyes on the shining outlines of The Ghost.
"And that means, my sweet?"
"That we should keep this blessed secret just a little longer—to ourselves. I feel as if I could not bear to have it explained, defended, or justified, and all that must follow, my very dear man, when the play is over and we return to—to school. I shall be glad and ready to do all this a little later on; proud to have you do it for me, and—we'll face the music. It is going to be music, dear, I am sure of that. But some very stern questions will be asked by that sweet mother of yours, and she shall have her answer. Then Doctor Ledyard, with all the prayer gone from his eyes, will call me up for judgment and demand to know what right a nurse, even a white nurse, had to lay hands upon a young physician who was on the road to glory! It will be hard to answer him; but never mind!"
"And then, dear lady of mystery, what then?"
"Why, then I'm going to beckon to you and we'll dance——"
"Dance, my darling?"
"Yes, dance away and away to a holy place I know, and then I'm going to tell you the whole story of Priscilla——"
But at that moment Margaret Moffatt came upon the scene. The miracle of love had transfigured the girl. She looked, as Travers had said to Priscilla, like the All Woman: large, fine, and noble, with unashamed surrender in her splendid eyes.
"And that is what she is!" Priscilla had replied, "the All Woman. I could die for her, live for her, do anything for her. For me, she is the first, the one woman, in all the world."
"Young devotee, could you, would you, give your—love up for her?" Travers had asked, and then Priscilla spoke words that Travers remembered long afterward.
"I could not give my love up for—that is—I, myself; just as the dance is—just as my soul is—but I could; yes, I know I could give up—my happiness for her, if by so doing I could spare her one shadow. Her glorious nature could reach where mine never could."
"Yours reaches to me, little girl."
"But hers—oh! my dear man, hers reaches to—the world. If you knew her as I know her!"
But Margaret was whimsical and witchy as she came upon the two in the small arbour by the lake.
"Folks," she said, "let us keep our nice little surprises to ourselves for a while, like miserly creatures. My dear old daddy-boy is fretting and fussing about me, 'dreading the issue,' as he told Doctor Ledyard, and behold—I'm going to do exactly what my daddykins desires! And you, Doctor Richard Travers, you are wanted by your lady mother. Here's a telegram. The girl in the office always tells what is in a telegram, to spare shock. And Cilla, my shining-headed chum, you and I are going to scamper about a bit before we go home. I'd be a miserable defaulter, indeed, if I did not give you your share of this experience. Oh! I know you've snatched bits that in no wise were included in the program, but we're all grafters. I want to play fair. Will you flit over the continent with me and Mousey, dear little—pal?"
And three days later they began their trip, while Travers returned to Helen. It was a charming trip the girls made, but their hearts were elsewhere.
In October they were in New York again, and the inevitable happened. Margaret was returned to her world, and, for the moment, was absorbed. Priscilla lost sight of her, though she heard constantly from her by telephone or delicately worded notes.
A sad occurrence kept Richard Travers abroad. Helen contracted fever and for weeks lay between life and death. Doctor Ledyard waited until the danger was past, and then left the two together in Paris, while Helen recovered, with Travers to watch and care for her.
The letters that came to Priscilla were all that kept her eyes shining and her heart singing.
"I shall go on as usual," she wrote to Richard. "When you come, then we'll make the wonderful announcement. I see now that we have no right to our secret alone; but with the ocean between us, it is best."
During those months Priscilla learned to know Helen Travers through Travers's letters. Woman-like, she read between the lines and caught a glimpse of Helen's nobility and simple sweetness. Her loved ones were so sacred to her that no personal demands could ever cause her to raise objections. Once she was sure that they she worshipped wanted anything for their true happiness, her energies were bent to that end.
"And she will love you, my girl; will learn to depend upon you as I do. As for Doctor Ledyard, when he is cornered, he is the best soul that ever drew breath, and mother can bully him into anything."
It was in February that Priscilla was called up by Doctor Hapgood, a man of high repute.
"Are you on duty?"
"No, sir."
"Any immediate engagement?"
"None until March."
"I would like to have you take a case of mine that requires tact as well as efficiency. Can you take it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Report then at 60 West Eighty-first Street this afternoon, at four."
Priscilla found herself promptly at four o'clock in the waiting-room of a palatial bachelor apartment, and there Doctor Hapgood joined her.
"Before we go upstairs," he said, drawing his chair close to Priscilla's and lowering his voice, "I wish to say to you what, doubtless, there is no real need of saying. I simply emphasize the necessity. The young man who requires your services is Clyde Huntter. This means nothing to you, but it does to many others. He is supposed to be in—Bermuda. You understand?"
"Yes, Doctor Hapgood."
"The case is a particularly tragic one, such an one as you may encounter later on in your career. It demands all your sympathy, encouragement, and patience. Mr. Huntter is as fine a man, as upright a one, as I know, his ideals and—and present life are above reproach. He is paying a bitter debt for youthful and ignorant folly. I believed this impossible, but so it is. I am thankful to say, however, that he has every reason to hope that the future, after this, is secure. I have chosen you to care for him, because I know your ability; have heard of your powers of reticence and cheerfulness. I depend upon you absolutely."
"Thank you, Doctor Hapgood."
Priscilla's face had gone deadly white, but never having heard Huntter's name before, she was impersonal in her feeling.
"I will do my best."
The days following were days of strain and torture to Priscilla. Her patient was a man who appealed to her strongly, pathetically. There were hours when his gloom and depression would almost drag her along to the depths into which he sank; then again he would beg her to pardon him for his brutal thoughtlessness.
"Sit there, Miss Glynn," he said one day. "The sunshine is rather niggardly, but when it rests on your hair—it lasts longer."
"Oh, my poor hair!"
"Poor? It looks like a gold mine." Then: "I wish you would read to me. No; nothing recent or superficial. Something from the old, cast-iron writers who knew how to use thumb screws and rack. There's something wholesome in them; something you buck up against. They make you writhe and groan, but they leave you with the thought that—you've lived through something."
Again, another day, after a bad night:
"I think you'd better go into the next room, Miss Glynn, and take a nap. I'd feel less brutally selfish if I could see your eyes calmer. Besides, being shut away here from all I'm dying to have makes an idiot of me. If you stay any longer, looking at me with those queer eyes of yours, I may break down and tell you all about it, just for the dangerous joy of easing my own soul by dumping a load on yours. Good God! Miss Glynn, such women as you should not be nurses; it isn't fair. I'd give—let me see—well, I'd give six months of my life—since Hapgood says I stand a fair chance for ninety years—to talk to you, man to woman, and get your point of view—about something. There are moments, after a bad night, when I think you women haven't had all they say you should have had. We men have been too blindly sure we could play your game as well as our own. Run now! If you stay another minute I'll regret it, and so will you."
"Shall I shake your pillow before I go, Mr. Huntter?"
"Yes. Thank you. You manage to shake more whim-whams out of the creases than you know."
He stayed her by a wistful, longing, and half-boyish smile.
"Say," he said, "you see you didn't run quick enough, and now I'm going to ask you something. You must have seen a good deal of women as well as men in your calling."
"Yes, I have."
"Seen them with their masks off?"
"Yes."
"What does love count for in the big hours of life? Does it stand everything, anything?"
Priscilla felt her throat contract. She longed to say something that would reach Huntter without arousing his suspicions.
"No; love—at least, woman's love, doesn't stand everything—always."
"What doesn't it stand? The essence, I mean."
"It doesn't stand unfair play! Women understand fair play and for it would die. They may not say much, but—they never forgive being—tricked."
"Oh! of course. How graphic you are, Miss Glynn. You sound as if we were discussing a game of—of tennis or bridge. Gentlemen do not trick ladies." He frowned a bit.
"Don't they, Mr. Huntter?"
"Certainly not! What I meant was this: You seem, for a trained woman, very human and—and—well, what shall I say?—observing and rather a—thoroughbred. Ifyouloved, now, loved really, is there anything you would not forgive a man? That is, if his love for you was the biggest thing in his life?"