He was awakened by the unaccustomed silence. As he lay with his eyes open, his first thought was that all things had stopped—the world had come to its end. Then remembrance came, and he stretched in lazy enjoyment of the stillness and the soft feather bed upon which he had slept. Finding himself too wide awake for more sleep, he went over to the little gable window and looked out. The unfermented wine of another spring day came to his eager nostrils. The little ball had made another turn. Its cheek was coming once more into the light. Already the east was flushing with a wondrous vague pink. The little animals in the city over there, he thought, would soon be tumbling out of their beds to begin another of their funny, serious days of trial and failure; to make ready for another night of forgetfulness, when their absurd little ant-hill should turn again away from the big blazing star. He sat a long time at the window, looking out to the east, where the light was showing; meditating on many idle, little matters, but conscious all the time of great power within himself.
He felt ready now for any conflict. The need for some great immediate action pressed upon him. He did not identify it. Something he must do—he must have action—and that at once. He was glad to think how Uncle Peter would begin to rejoice in him—secretly at first, and then to praise him. He was equal to any work. He could not begin it quickly enough. That queer need to do something at once was still pressing, still unidentified.
By five he was down-stairs. The girl, fresh as a dew-sprayed rose in the garden outside, brought him breakfast of fruit, bacon and eggs, coffee and waffles. He ate with relish, delighting meantime in the girl's florid freshness, and even in the assertive, triumphant whistle of the youth busy at his tasks outside.
When he set out he meant to reach the car and go back to town at once. Yet when he came to the road over which he had loitered the day before, he turned off upon it with slower steps. There was a confusing whirl of ideas in his brain, a chaos that required all his energy to feed it, so that the spring went from his step.
Then all at once, a new-born world cohered out of the nebula, and the sight of its measured, orderly whirling dazed him. He had been seized with a wish—almost an intention, so stunning in its audacity that he all but reeled under the shock. It seemed to him that the thing must have been germinated in his mind without his knowledge; it had lain there, gathering force while he rested, now to burst forth and dazzle him with its shine. All that undimmed freshness of longing he had felt the day before-all the unnamed, unidentified, nameless desires—had flooded back upon him, but now no longer aimless. They were acutely definite. He wanted Avice Milbrey,—wanted her with an intensity as unreasoning as it was resistless. This was the new world he had watched swimming out of the chaos in his mind, taking its allotted orbit in a planetary system of possible, rational, matter-of-course proceedings.
And Avice Milbrey was to marry Shepler, the triumphant money-king.
He sat down by the roadside, well-nigh helpless, surrendering all his forces to the want.
Then there came upon him to reinforce this want a burning sense of defeat. He remembered Uncle Peter's first warnings in the mine about "cupboard love;" the gossip of Higbee: "If you were broke, she'd have about as much use for you—" all the talk he had listened to so long about marriage for money; and, at the last, Shepler's words to Uncle Peter: "I was uncertain until copper went to 51." Those were three wise old men who had talked, men who knew something of women and much of the world. And they were so irritating in their certainty. What a fine play to fool them all!
The sense of defeat burned into him more deeply. He had been vanquished, cheated, scorned, shamefully flouted. The money was gone—all of Uncle Peter's complaints and biting sarcasms came back to him with renewed bitterness; but his revenge on Uncle Peter would be in showing him a big man at work, with no nonsense about him. But Shepler, who was now certain, and Higbee, who had always been certain,—especially Shepler, with his easy sense of superiority with a woman over any poor man. That was a different matter. There was a thing to think about. And he wanted Avice Milbrey. He could not, he decided, go back without her.
Something of the old lawless spirit of adventure that had spurred on his reckless forbears urged him to carry the girl back with him. She didn't love him. He would take her in spite of that; overpower her; force her to go. It was a revenge of superb audacity. Shepler had not been sure of her until now. Well, Shepler might be hurled from that certainty by one hour of determined action.
The great wild wish narrowed itself into a definite plan. He recalled the story Uncle Peter had told at the Oldakers' about the woman and her hair. A woman could be coerced if a man knew her weakness. He could coerce her. He knew it instinctively; and the instinctive belief rallied to its support a thousand little looks from her, little intonations of her voice, little turnings of her head when they had been together. In spite of her calculations, in spite of her love of money, he could make her feel her weakness. He was a man with the power.
It was heady wine for the morning. He described himself briefly as a lunatic, and walked on again. But the crazy notion would not be gone. The day before he had been passive. Now he was active, acutely aware of himself and all his wants. He walked a mile trying to dismiss the idea. He sat down again, and it flooded back upon him with new force.
Her people were gone. She had even intimated a wish to talk with him again. It could be done quickly. He knew. He felt the primitive superiority of man's mere brute force over woman. He gloried in his knotted muscles and the crushing power of his desires.
Afterward, she would reproach him bitterly. They would both be unhappy. It was no matter. It was the present, the time when he should be living. He would have her, and Shepler—Shepler might have had the One Girl mine—but this girl, never!
Again he tried faithfully to walk off the obsession. Again were his essays at sober reason unavailing.
His mind was set as it had been when he bought the stocks day after day against the advice of the best judges in the Street. He could not turn himself back. There must be success. There could not be a giving up—and there must not be failure.
Hour after hour he alternately walked and rested, combating and favouring the mad project. It was a foolish little world, and people were always waiting for another time to begin the living of life. The German had quoted Martial: "To-morrow I will live, the fool says; to-day itself's too late. The wise lived yesterday."
If he did go away alone he knew he would always regret it. If he carried her triumphantly off, doubtless his regret for that would eventually be as great. The first regret was certain. The latter was equally plausible; but, if it came, would it not be preferable to the other? To have held her once—to have taken her away, to have triumphed over her own calculations, and, best of all, to have triumphed over the money-king resting fatuously confident behind his wealth, dignifying no man as rival who was not rich. The present, so, was more than any possible future, how dire soever it might be.
He was mad to prove to her—and to Shepler—that she was more a woman than either had supposed,—a woman in spite of herself, weak, unreasoning; to prove to them both that a determined man has a vital power to coerce which no money may ever equal.
Not until five o'clock had he by turns urged and fought himself to the ferry. By that time he had given up arguing. He was dwelling entirely upon his plan of action. Strive and grope as he would, the thing had driven him on relentlessly. His reason could not take him beyond the reach of its goad. Far as he went he loved her even farther. She belonged to him. He would have her. He seemed to have been storing, the day before, a vast quantity of energy that he was now drawing lavishly upon. For the time, he was pure, raw force, needing, to be resistless, only the guidance of a definite purpose.
He crossed the ferry and went to the hotel, where he shaved and freshened himself. He found Grant, the porter, waiting for him when he went downstairs, and gave him written directions to the railroad people to have the car attached to the Chicago Express leaving at eight the next morning; also instructions about his baggage.
"I expect there will be two of us, Grant; see that the car is well stocked; and here, take this; go to a florist's and get about four dozen pink roses—la France—can you remember?—pink—don't take any other colour, and be sure they're fresh. Have breakfast ready by the time the train starts."
"Yes, Mistah Puhs'val!" said Grant, and added to himself, "Yo' suttiny do ca'y yo'se'f mighty han'some, Mistah Man!"
Going out of the hotel, he met Launton Oldaker, with whom he chatted a few moments, and then bade good-bye.
Oldaker, with a sensitive regard for the decencies, refrained from expressing the hearty sympathy he felt for a man who would henceforth be compelled to live out of the world.
Percival walked out to Broadway, revolving his plan. He saw it was but six o'clock. He could do nothing for at least an hour. When he noted this he became conscious of his hunger. He had eaten nothing since morning. He turned into a restaurant on Madison Square and ordered dinner. When he had eaten, he sat with his coffee for a final smoke of deliberation. He went over once more the day's arguments for and against the novel emprise. He had become insensible, however, to all the dissenting ones. As a last rally, he tried to picture the difficulties he might encounter. He faced all he could imagine.
"By God, I'll do it!"
"Oui, monsieur!" said the waiter, who had been standing dreamily near, startled into attention by the spoken words.
"That's all—give me the check."
As he went out the door, a young woman passed him, looking him straight in the eyes. From her light swishing skirts came the faint perfume of the violet. It chilled the steel of his resolution.
He entered a carriage. It was a hot, humid night. Already the mist was making grey softness of the air, dulling the street lights to ruddy orange. Northward, over the breast of Murray Hill a few late carriages trickled down toward him. Their wheels, when they passed, made swift reflections in the damp glare of the asphalt.
He was pent force waiting to be translated into action.
He drove first to the Milbrey house, on the chance that she might be at home. Jarvis answered his ring.
"Miss Milbrey is with Mrs. Van Geist, sir."
Jarvis spoke regretfully. Pie had reasons of his own for believing that the severance of the Milbrey relationship with Mr. Bines had been nothing short of calamitous.
He rang Mrs. Van Geist's bell, five minutes later.
"The ladies haven't come back, sir. I don't know where they might be. Perhaps at the Valners', in Fifty-second Street, sir."
He rang the Valners' bell.
"Mrs. Van Geist and Miss Milbrey? They left at least half an hour ago, sir."
"Go down the avenue slowly, driver!"
At Fortieth Street he looked down to the middle of the block.
Mrs. Van Geist, alone, was just alighting from her coupé.
He signalled the driver.
"Go to the other address again, in Thirty-seventh Street."
Jarvis opened the door.
"Yes, sir—thank you, sir—Miss Milbrey is in, sir. I'll see, sir."
He crossed the Rubicon of a door-mat and stood in the unlighted hall. At the far end he saw light coming from a door that he knew opened into the library.
Jarvis came into the light. Behind him appeared Miss Milbrey in the doorway.
"Miss Milbrey says will you enter the library, Mr. Bines?"
He walked quickly back. At the doorway she gave him her hand, which he took in silence. "Why—Mr. Bines!—you wouldn't have surprised me last night. To-night I pictured you on your way West."
Her gown was of dull blue dimity. She still wore her hat, an arch of straw over her face, with ripe red cherries nodding upon it as she moved. He closed the door behind him.
"Do come in. I've been having a solitary rummage among old things. It is my last night here. We're leaving for the country to-morrow, you know."
She stood by the table, the light from a shaded lamp making her colour glow.
Now she noted that he had not spoken. She turned quickly to him as if to question.
He took a swift little step toward her, still without speaking. She stepped back with a sudden instinct of fright.
He took two quick steps forward and grasped one of her wrists. He spoke in cool, even tones, but the words came fast:
"I've come to marry you to-night; to take you away with me to that Western country. You may not like the life. You may grieve to death for all I know—but you're going. I won't plead, I won't beg, but I am going to take you."
She had begun to pull away in alarm when he seized her wrist. His grasp did not bruise, it did not seem to be tight; but the hand that held it was immovable.
"Mr. Bines, you forget yourself. Really, this is—"
"Don't waste time. You can say all that needs to be said—I'll give you time for that before we start—but don't waste the time saying all those useless things. Don't waste time telling me I'm crazy. Perhaps I am. We can settle that later."
"Mr. Bines—how absurd! Oh! let me go! You're hurting my wrist! Oh!—don't—don't—don't! Oh!"
When he felt the slender wrist trying to writhe from his grasp he had closed upon it more tightly, and thrusting his other arm quickly behind her, had drawn her closely to him. Her cries and pleadings were being smothered down on his breast. Her struggles met only the unbending, pitiless resistance of steel.
"Don't waste time, I tell you—can't you understand? Be sensible,—talk if you must—only talk sense."
"Let me go at once—I demand it—quick—oh!"
"Take this hat off!"
He forced the wrist he had been holding down between them, so that she could not free the hand, and, with his own hand thus freed, he drew out the two long hat-pins and flung the hat with its storm-tossed cherries across the room. Still holding her tightly, he put the free hand on her brow and thrust her head back, so that she was forced to look up at him.
"Let me see you—I want to see your eyes—they're my eyes now."
Her head strained against his hand to be down again, and all her strength was exerted to be away. She found she could not move in any direction.
"Oh, you're hurting my neck. WhatshallI do? I can't scream—think what it would mean!—you're hurting my neck!"
"You are hurting yourownneck—stop it!"
He kissed her face, softly, her cheeks, her eyes, her chin.
"I've loved you so—don't—what's the use? Be sensible. My arms have starved for you so—do you think they're going to loosen now? Avice Milbrey—Avice Milbrey—Avice Milbrey!"
His arms tightened about her as he said the name over and over.
"That's poetry—it's all the poetry there is in the world. It's a verse I say over in the night. You can't understand it yet—it's too deep for you. It means I must have you—and the next verse means that you must have me—a poor man—be a poor man's wife—and all the other verses—millions of them—mean that I'll never give you up—and there's a lot more verses for you to write, when you understand—meaning that you'll never givemeup—and there's one in the beginning means I'm going to carry you out and marry you to-night—now, do you understand?—right off—this very night!"
"Oh! Oh! this is so terrible! Oh, it'ssoawful!"
Her voice broke, and he felt her body quiver with sobs. Her face was pitifully convulsed, and tears welled in her eyes.
"Let mego—let—me—go!"
He released her head, but still held her closely to him. Her sobs had become uncontrollable.
"Here—" he reached for the little lace-edged handkerchief that lay beside her long gloves and her purse, on the table.
She took it mechanically.
"Please—oh,pleaselet me go—I beg you." She managed it with difficulty between the convulsions that were rending her.
He put his lips down upon the soft hair.
"Iwon't—do you understand that? Stop talking nonsense."
He thought there would be no end to the sobs.
"Have it out, dear—there's plenty of time."
Once she seemed to have stopped the tears. He turned her face up to his own again, and softly kissed her wet eyes. Her full lips were parted before him, but he did not kiss them. The sobs came again.
"There—there!—it will soon be over."
At last she ceased to cry from sheer exhaustion, and when, with his hand under her chin, he forced up her head again, she looked at him a full minute and then closed her eyes.
He kissed their lids.
There came from time to time the involuntary quick little indrawings of breath,—the aftermath of her weeping.
He held her so for a time, while neither spoke. She had become too weak to struggle.
"My arms have starved for you so," he murmured. She gave no sign.
"Come over here." He led her, unresisting, around to the couch at the other side of the table.
"Sit here, and we'll talk it over sensibly, before you get ready."
When he released her, she started quickly up toward the door that led into the hall.
"Don'tdo that—please don't be foolish."
He locked the door, and put the key in his pocket. Then he went over to the big folding-doors, and satisfied himself they were locked from the other side. He went back and stood in front of her. She had watched him with dumb terror in her face.
"Now we can talk—but there isn't much to be said. How soon can you be ready?"
"Youarecrazy!"
"Possibly—believe what you like."
"How did you everdare?Oh, howawful!"
"If you haven't passed that stage, I'll hold you again."
"No, no—pleasedon't—please stand up again. Sit over there,—I can think better."
"Think quickly. This is Saturday, and to-morrow is their busy day. They may not sit up late to-night."
She arose with a little shrug of desperation that proclaimed her to be in the power of a mad man. She looked at her face in the oval mirror, wiping her eyes and making little passes and pats at her disordered hair. He went over to her.
"No, no—please go over there again. Sit down a moment—let me think. I'll talk to you presently."
There was silence for five minutes. He watched her, while she narrowed her eyes in deep thought.
Then he looked at his watch.
"I can give you an hour, if you've anything to say before it's done—not longer."
She drew a long breath.
"Mr. Bines, are you mad? Can't you be rational?"
"I haven't been irrational, I give you my word, not once since I came here."
He looked at her steadily. All at once he saw her face go crimson. She turned her eyes from his with an effort.
"I'm going back to Montana in the morning. I want you to marry me to-night—I won't even wait one more day—one more hour. I know it's a thing you never dreamt of—marrying a poor man. You'll look at it as the most disgraceful act of folly you could possibly commit, and so will every one else here—but you'lldoit. To-morrow at this time you'll be half-way to Chicago with me."
"Mr. Bines,—I'm perfectly reasonable and serious—I mean it—are you quite sure you didn't lose your wits when you lost your money?"
"Itmaybe considered a witless thing to marry a girl who would marry for money—but never mindthat—I'm used to taking chances."
She glanced up at him, curiously.
"You know I'm to marry Mr. Shepler the tenth of next month."
"Your grammar is faulty—tense is wrong—You should say 'Iwasto have married Mr. Shepler.' I'm fastidious about those little things, I confess."
"How can you jest?"
"I can't. Don't think this is any joke.He'llfind out."
"Who will find out,—what, pray?"
"He will. He's already said he was afraid there might have been some nonsense between you and me, because we talked that evening at the Oldakers'. He told my grandfather he wasn't at all sure of you until that day I lost my money."
"Oh, I see—and of course you'd like your revenge—carrying me off from him just to hurt him."
"If you say that I'll hold you in my arms again." He started toward her. "I've loved youso, I tell you—all the time—all the time."
"Or perhaps it's a brutal revenge on me,—after thinking I'd only marry for money."
"I've loved you always, I tell you."
He came up to her, more gently now, and took up her hand to kiss it. He saw the ring.
"Take his ring off!"
She looked up at him with an amused little smile, but did not move. He reached for the hand, and she put it behind her.
"Take it off," he said, harshly.
He forced her hand out, took off the ring with its gleaming stone, none too gently, and laid it on the table behind him. Then he covered the hand with kisses.
"Now it's my hand. Perhaps there was a little of both those feelings you accuse me of—perhaps Ididwant to triumph over both you and Shepler—and the other people who said you'd never marry for anything but money—but do you think I'd have had either one of those desires if I hadn't loved you? Do you think I'd have cared how many Sheplers you married if I hadn't loved you so, night and day?—always turning to you in spite of everything,—loving you always, under everything—always, I tell you."
"Under what—what 'everything'?"
"When I was sure you had no heart—that you couldn't care for any man except a rich man—that you would marry only for money."
"You thought that?"
"Of course I thought it."
"What has changed you?"
"Nothing. I'm going to change it now by proving differently. I shall take you against your will—but I shall make you love me—in the end. I know you—you're a woman, in spite of yourself!"
"You were entirely right about me. I would even have married you because of the money—"
"Tell me what it is you're holding back—don't wait."
"Let me think—don't talk, please!"
She sat a long time silent, motionless, her eyes fixed ahead. At length she stirred herself to speak.
"You were right about me, partly—and partly wrong. I don't think I can make you understand. I've always wanted so much from life—so much more than it seemed possible to have. The only thing for a girl in my position and circumstances was to make what is called a good marriage. I wanted what that would bring, too. I was torn between the desires—or rather the natural instincts and the trained desires. I had ideals about loving and being loved, and I had the material ideals of my experience in this world out here.
"I was untrue to each by turns. Here—I want to show you something."
She took up a book with closely written pages.
"I came here to-night—I won't conceal from you that I thought of you when I came. It was my last time here, and you had gone, I supposed. Among other things I had out this old diary to burn, and I had found this, written on my eighteenth birthday, when I came out—the fond, romantic, secret ideal of a foolish girl—listen:
"The Soul of Love wed the Soul of Truth and their daughter, Joy, was born: who was immortal and in whom they lived for ever!'
"You see—that was the sort of moonshine I started in to live. Two or three times I was a grievous disappointment to my people, and once or twice, perhaps, I was disappointed myself. I was never quite sure what I wanted. But if you think I was consistently mercenary you are mistaken. "I shall tell you something more—something no one knows. There was a man I met while that ideal was still strong and beautiful to me—but after I'd come to see that here, in this life, it was not easily to be kept. He was older than I, experienced with women—a lover of women, I came to understand in time. I was a novelty to him, a fresh recreation—he enjoyed all those romantic ideals of mine. I thought then he loved me, and I worshipped him. He was married, but constantly said he was about to leave his wife, so she would divorce him. I promised to come to him when it was done. He had married for money and he would have been poor again. I didn't mind in the least. I tell you this to show you that I could have loved a poor man, not only well enough to marry him, but to break with the traditions, and brave the scandal of going to him in that common way. With all I felt for him I should have been more than satisfied. But I came in time to see that he was not as earnest as I had been. He wasn't capable of feeling what I felt. He was more cowardly than I—or rather, I was more reckless than he. I suspected it a long time; I became convinced of it a year ago and a little over. He became hateful to me. I had wasted my love. Then he became funny. But—you see—I am not altogether what you believed me. Wait a bit longer, please.
"Then I gave up, almost—and later, I gave up entirely. And when my brother was about to marry that woman, and Mr. Shepler asked me to marry him, I consented. It seemed an easy way to end it all. I'd quit fondling ideals. And you had told me I must do anything I could to keep Fred from marrying that woman—my people came to say the same thing—and so—"
"If he had married her—if they were married now—then you would feel free to marry me?"
"You would still be the absurdest man in New York—but we can't discuss that. He isn't going to marry her."
"But hehasmarried her—"
"What do you mean?"
"I supposed you knew—Oldaker told me as I left the hotel. He and your father were witnesses. The marriage took place this afternoon at the Arlingham."
"You're not deceiving me?"
"Come, come!—girl!"
"Oh,pardonme! please! Of course I didn't mean it—but you stunned me. And papa said nothing to me about it before he left. The money must have been too great a temptation to him and to Fred. She has just made some enormous amount in copper stock or something."
"I know, she had better advice than I had. I'd like to reward the man who gave it to her."
"And I was sure you were going to marry that other woman."
"How could you think so?"
"Of course I'm not the least bit jealous—it isn't my disposition; but Ididthink Florence Akemit wasn't the woman to make you happy—of course I liked her immensely—and there were reports going about—everybody seemed so sure—and you were with her so much. Oh, how I didhateher!"
"I tell you she is a joke and always was."
"It's funny—that's exactly what I told Aunt Cornelia about that—that man."
"Let's stop joking, then."
"How absurd you are—with my plans all made and the day set—"
There was a knock at the door. He went over and unlocked it. Jarvis was there.
"Mr. Shepler, Miss Avice."
They looked at each other.
"Jarvis, shut that door and wait outside."
"Yes, Mr. Bines."
"You can't see him."
"But I must,—we're engaged, don't you understand?—of course I must!"
"I tell you I won't let you. Can't you understand that I'm not talking idly?"
She tried to evade him and reach the door, but she was caught again in his arms—held close to him.
"If you like he shall come in now. But he's not going to take you away from me, as he did in that jeweller's the other night—and you can't see him at all except as you are now."
She struggled to be free.
"Oh, you're sobrutal!"
"I haven't begun yet—"
He drew her toward the door.
"Oh, not that—don't open it—I'll tell him—yes, I will!"
"I'm taking no more chances, and the time is short."
Still holding her closely with one arm, he opened the door. The man stared impassively above their heads—a graven image of unconsciousness.
"Jarvis."
"Yes, sir."
"Miss Milbrey wishes you to say to Mr. Shepler that she is engaged—"
"That I'm ill," she interrupted, still making little struggles to twist from his grasp, her head still bent down.
"That she is engaged with Mr. Bines, Jarvis, and can't see him. Say it that way—'Miss Milbrey is engaged with Mr. Bines, and can't see you.'".
'Say It That Way--Miss Milbrey is Engaged With Mr. Bines and Can't See You.'
"Yes, sir!"
He remained standing motionless, as he had been, his eyes still fixed above them. But the eyes of Jarvis, from long training, did hot require to be bent upon those things they needed to observe. They saw something now that was at least two feet below their range.
The girl made a little move with her right arm, which was imprisoned fast between them, and which some intuition led her captor not to restrain. The firm little hand worked its way slowly up, went creepingly over his shoulder and bent tightly about his neck.
"Yes, sir," repeated Jarvis, without the quiver of an eyelid, and went.
He closed the door with his free hand, and they stood as they were until they heard the noise of the front door closing and the soft retreating footsteps of the butler.
"Oh, you were mean—mean—to shame me so," and floods of tears came again.
"I hated to do it, but Ihadto; it was a critical moment. And you couldn't have made up your mind without it."
She sobbed weakly in his arms, but her own arm was still tight about his neck. He felt it for the first time.
"But Ihadmade up my mind—I did make it up while we talked."
They were back on the couch. He held her close and she no longer resisted, but nestled in his arms with quick little sighs, as if relieved from a great strain. He kissed her forehead and hair as she dried her eyes.
"Now, rest a little. Then we shall go."
"I've so much to tell you. That day at the jeweller's—well, what could I do but take one poor last little look of you—to keep?"
"Tell me if you care for me."
"Oh, I do, I do, I do care for you. Ihave—ever since that day we walked in the woods. I do, Ido!"
She threw her head back and gave him her lips.
She was crying again and trying to talk.
"I did care for you, and that day I thought you were going to say something, but you didn't—you were so distant and troubled, and seemed not even to like me—though I felt sure you loved me. I had thought you were going to tell me, and I'd have accepted—yes, for the money—though I liked you so much. Why, when I first met you in that mine and thought you were a workman, I'm not sure I wouldn't have married you if you had asked me. But it was different again when I found out about you. And that day in the woods I thought something had come between us. Only after dinner you seemed kinder, and I knew at once you thought better of me, and might even seek me—I knew it in the way a woman knows things she doesn't know at all. I went into the library with a candle to look into the mirror, almost sure you were going to come. Then I heard your steps and I was so glad—but it wasn't you-I'd been mistaken again-you still disliked me. I was so disappointed and hurt and heartsick, and he kissed me and soothed me. And after that directly I saw through him, and I knew I truly did love you just as I'd wanted to love the man who would be my husband—only all that nonsense about money that had been dinned into me so long kept me from seeing it at first. But I was sure you didn't care for me when they talked so about you, and that—you neverdidcare for her, did you—youcouldn'thave cared for her, could you?—and yet, after that night, I'd such a queer little feeling as if youhadcome for me, and had seen—"
"Surely a gentleman never sees anything he wasn't meant to see."
"I'm so glad—I should have beensoashamed—"
They were still a moment, while he stroked her hair.
"They'll be turning in early to-night, having to get up to-morrow and preach sermons—what a dreary place heaven must be compared with this!"
She sat up quickly.
"Oh, I'd forgotten. How awful it is.Isn'tit awful?"
"It will soon be over."
"But think of my people, and what's expected of me—think of Mr. Shepler."
"Shepler's doing some hard thinking for himself by this time."
"Really, you're a dreadful person—"
There was a knock.
"The cabman outside, sir, says how long is he to wait, sir?"
"Tell him to wait all night if I don't come; tell him if he moves off that spot I'll have his license taken away. Tell him I'm the mayor's brother."
"Yes, sir."
"And, Jarvis, who's in the house besides you?"
"Miss Briggs, the maid, sir—but she's just ready to go out, sir."
"Stop her—say Miss Milbrey wishes to ask a favour of her; and Jarvis."
"Yes, sir!"
"Go put on that neat black street coat of yours that fits you so beautifully in the back, and a purple cravat, and your shiny hat, and wait for us with Briggs. We shall want you in a moment."
"Yes, Mr. Bines."
She looked at him wonderingly.
"We need two witnesses, you know. I learned that from Oldaker just now."
"But do give me amoment, everything is all so whirling and hazy."
"Yes, I know—like the solar system in its nebulous state. Well, hurry and make those worlds take shape. I can give you sixty seconds to find that I'm the North Star. Ach! I have the Doctor von Herzlich been ge-speaking with—come, come! What's the use of any more delay? I've wasted nearly three hours here now, dilly-dallying along. But then, a woman never does know her own mind.
"Put a thing before her—all as plain as the multiplication table—and she must use up just so much good time telling a man that he's crazy—and shedding tears because he won't admit that two times two are thirty-seven." She was silent and motionless for another five minutes, thinking intently. "Come, time's up."
She arose.
"I'm ready. I shall marry you, if you think I'm the woman to help you in that big, new life of yours. They meant me not to know about Fred's marriage until afterward."
He kissed her.
"I feel so rested and quiet now, as if I'd taken down a big old gate and let the peace rush in on me. I'm sure it's right. I'm sure I can help you."
She picked up her hat and gloves.
"Now I'll go bathe my eyes and fix my hair."
"I can't let you out of my sight, yet. I'm incredulous. Perhaps in seventy-five or eighty years—"
"I thought you were so sure."
"While I can reach you, yes."
She gave a low, delicious little laugh. She reached both arms up around him, pulled down his head and kissed him.
"There—boy!"
She took up the hat again.
"I'll be down in a moment."
"I'll be up in three, if you're not."
When she had gone he picked up an envelope and put a bill inside.
"Jarvis," he called.
The butler came up from below, dressed for the street.
"Jarvis, put this envelope in the inside of that excellent black coat of yours and hand it—afterward—to the gentleman we're going to do business with."
"Yes, Mr. Bines."
"And put your cravat down in the back, Jarvis—it makes you look excited the way it is now."
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir!"
"Is Briggs ready?" "She's waiting, sir."
"Go out and get in the carriage, both of you."
"Yes, sir!"
He stood in the hallway waiting for her. It was a quarter-past ten. In another moment she rustled softly down to him.
"I'm trusting so much to you, and you're trusting so much to me. It'ssucha rash step!"
"Must I—"
"No, I'm going. Couldn't we stop and take Aunt Cornelia?"
"Aunt Cornelia won't have a chance to worry about this until it's all over. We'll stop there then, if you like."
"We'll try Doctor Prendle, then. He's almost sure to be in."
"It won't make any difference if he isn't. We'll find one. Those horses are rested. They can go all night if they must."
"I have Grandmother Loekermann's wedding-ring—of course you didn't fetch one. Trust a man to forget anything of importance."
His grasp of her hand during the ride did not relax.
Mrs. van Geist came flustering out to the carriage.
"You and Briggs may get out here, Jarvis. There, that's for you, and that's for Briggs—and thank you both very much!"
"Child, child! what does it mean?"
"Mr. Bines is my husband, Mütterchen, and we're leaving for the West in the morning."
The excitement did not abate for ten minutes or so. "And do say something cheerful, dear," pleaded Avice, at parting.
"You mad child—I was always afraid you might do something like this; but Iwillsay I'm not altogethersureyou've acted foolishly."
"Thank you, you dear old Mütterchen! and you'll come to see us—you shall see how happy I can be with this—this boy—this Lochinvar, Junior—I'm sure Mrs. Lochinvar always lived happily ever after."
Mrs. Van Geist kissed them both.
"Back to Thirty-seventh Street, driver."
"I shall want you at seven-thirty sharp, to-morrow morning," he said, as they alighted. "Will you be here, sure?"
"Sure, boss!"
"You'll make another one of those if you're on time."
The driver faced the bill toward the nearest street-light and scanned it. Then he placed it tenderly in the lining of his hat, and said, fervently:
"I'llbehere, gent!"
"My trunks," Avice reminded him.
"And, driver, send an express wagon at seven sharp. Do you understand, now?"
"Sure, gent, I'll have it here at seven, and be here at seven-thirty."
They went in.
"You've sent Briggs off, and I've all that packing and unpacking to do."
"You have a husband who is handy at those things."
They went up to her room where two trunks yawned open.
Under her directions and with her help he took out the light summer things and replaced them with heavier gowns, stout shoes, golf-capes, and caps.
"We'll be up on the Bitter Root ranch this summer, and you'll need heavy things," he had told her.
Sometimes he packed clumsily, and she was obliged to do his work over. In these intervals he studied with interest the big old room and her quaint old sampler worked in coloured worsteds that had faded to greys and dull browns:"La Nuit Porte Conseil."
"Grandma Loekermann did it at the convent, ages ago," she told him.
"What a cautious young thing she must have been!"
She leaned against his shoulder.
"But she eloped with her true love, young Annekje Van Schoule; left the home in Hickory Street one night, and went far away, away up beyond One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, somewhere, and then wrote them about it."
"And left the sampler?"
"She had her husband—she didn't need any old sampler after that—Le mariage porte conseil, aussi, monsieur.And now, you've married your wife with her wedding-ring, that came from Holland years and years ago."
It was after midnight when they began to pack. When they finished it was nearly four.
She had laid out a dark dress for the journey, but he insisted that she put it in a suit-case, and wear the one she had on.
"I shouldn't know you in any other—and it's the colour of your eyes. I want that colour all over the place."
"But we shall be travelling."
"In our own car. That car has been described in the public prints as a 'suite of palatial apartments with all modern conveniences.'"
"I forgot."
"We shall be going West like the old '49-ers, seeking adventure and gold."
"Did they go in their private cars?"
"Some of them went in rolling six-horse Concords, and some walked, and some of them pushed their baggage across in little hand-carts, but they had fun at it—and we shall have to work as hard when we get there."
"Dear me! And I'm so tired already. I feel quite done up."
She threw herself on the wide divan, and he fixed pillows under her head.
"You boy! I'm glad it's all over. Let's rest a moment."
He leaned back by her, and drew her head on to his arm.
"I'm glad, too. It's the hardest day's work I ever did. Are you comfortable? Rest."
"It's so good," she murmured, nestling on his shoulder.
"Uncle Peter took his honeymoon in a big wagon drawn by a mule team, two hundred miles over the 'Placerville and Red Dog Trail—over the mountains from California to Nevada. But he says he never had so happy a time."
"He's an old dear! I'll kiss him—how is it you say—'good and plenty.' Did our Uncle Peter elope, too?"
He chuckled.
"Not exactly. It was more like abduction complicated with assault and battery. Uncle Peter is pretty direct in his methods. The young lady's family thought she could do better with a bloated capitalist who owned three-eighths of a saw-mill. But Uncle Peter and she thought she couldn't. So Uncle Peter had to lick her father and two brothers before he could get her away. He would have licked the purse-proud rival, too, but the rival ran into the saw-mill he owned the three-eighths of, and barricaded the whole eight-eighths—the-five-eighths that didn't belong to him at all, you understand—and then he threatened through a chink to shoot somebody if Uncle Peter didn't go off about his business. So Uncle Peter went, not wanting any unnecessary trouble. I've always suspected he was a pretty ready scrapper in those days, but the poor old fellow's getting a bit childish now, with all this trouble about losing the money, and the hard time he had in the snow last winter. By the way, I forgot to ask, and it's almost too late now, but do you like cats?"
"I adore them—aren't kittens thedearest?"
"Well—you're healthy—and your nose doesn't really fall below the specifications, though it doesn't promise that you're anytoosensible,—but if you can make up for it by your infatuation for cats, perhaps it will be all right. Of course I couldn't keep you, you know, if you weren't very fond of cats, because Uncle Peter'd raise a row—"
She was quite still, and he noted from the change in her soft breathing that she slept. With his free hand he carefully shook out a folded steamer rug and drew it over her.
For an hour he watched her, feeling the arm on which she lay growing numb. He reviewed the day and the crowded night. Hecoulddo something after all. Among other things, now, he would drop a little note to Higbee and add the news of his marriage as a postscript. She was actually his wife. How quickly it had come. His heart was full of a great love for her, but he could not quite repress the pride in his achievement—and Shepler had not been sure until he was poor!
He lost consciousness himself for a little while.
When he awoke the cold light of the morning was stealing in. He was painfully cramped, and chilled from the open window. From outside came the loud chattering of sparrows, and far away he could hear wagons as they rattled across a street of Belgian blocks from asphalt to asphalt. The light had been late in coming, and he could see a sullen grey sky, full of darker clouds.
Above the chiffonier he could see the ancient sampler.
"La Nuit Porte Conseil."It was true.
In the cold, pitiless light of the morning a sudden sickness of doubting seized him. She would awake and reproach him bitterly for coercing her. She had been right, the night before,—it was madness. They had talked afterward so feverishly, as if to forget their situation. Now she would face it coldly after the sleep.
"La Nuit Porte Conseil."Had he not been a fool? And he loved her so. He would have her anyway—no matter what she said, now.
She stirred, and her wide-open eyes were staring up at him—staring with hurt, troubled wonder. The amazement in them grew—she could not understand.
He stopped breathing. His embrace of her relaxed.
And then he saw remembrance—recognition—welcome—and there blazed into her eyes such a look of whole love as makes men thrill to all good; such a look as makes them know they are men, and dare all great deeds to show it. Like a sunrise, it flooded her face with dear, wondrous beauties,—and still she looked, silent, motionless,—in an ecstasy of pure realisation. Then her arms closed about his neck with a swift little rushing, and he—still half-doubting, still curious—felt himself strained to her. Still more closely she clung, putting out with her intensity all his misgiving.
She sought his lips with her own—eager, pressing.
"Kiss me—kiss me—kiss me! Oh, it's all true—all true! My best-loved dream has come all true! I have rested so in your arms. I never knew rest before. I can't remember when I haven't awakened to doubt, and worry, and heart-sickness. And now it's peace—dear, dear, dearest dear, for ever and ever and ever."
They sat up.
"Now we shall go—get me away quickly."
It was nearly seven. Outside the sky was still all gloom.
In the rush of her reassurance he had forgotten his arm. It hung limp from his shoulder.
"It was cramped."
"And you didn't move it?"
They beat it and kneaded it gaily together, until the fingers were full of the rushing blood and able again to close warmly over her own little hand.
"Now go, and let me get ready. I won't be long."
He went below to the library, and in the dim grey light picked up a book, "The Delights of Delicate Eating." He tried another, "101 Sandwiches." The next was "Famous Epicures of the 17th Century." On the floor was her diary. He placed it on the table. He heard her call him from the stairs:
"Bring me up that ring from the table, please!"
He went up and handed it to her through the narrowly opened door.
As he went down the stairs he heard the bell ring somewhere below, and went to the door.
"Baggage!"
The two trunks were down and out. "They're to go on this car, attached to the Chicago Express." He wrote the directions on one of his cards and paid the man.
At seven-thirty the bell rang again. The cabman was there.
"Seven-thirty, gent!"
"Avice!"
"I'm coming. And there are two bags I wish you'd get from my room." He let her pass him and went up for them.
She went into the library and, taking up the diary, tore out a sheet, marked heavily upon it with a pencil around the passage she had read the evening before, and sealed it in an envelope. She addressed it to her father, and laid it, with a paper-weight on it, upon "The Delights of Delicate Eating," where he would be sure to find it.
The book itself she placed on the wood laid ready in the grate to light, touched a match to the crumpled paper underneath and put up the blower. She stood waiting to see that the fire would burn.
Over the mantel from its yellow canvas looked above her head the humourously benignant eyes of old Annekje Van Schoule, who had once removed from Maspeth Kill on Long Island to New Haarlem on the Island of Manhattan, and carried there, against her father's will, the yellow-haired girl he had loved. His face now seemed to be pretending unconsciousness of the rashly acted scenes he had witnessed—lest, if he betrayed his consciousness, he should be forced, in spite of himself, to disclose his approval—a thing not fitting for an elderly, dignified Dutch burgher to do.
"Avice!"
"Coming!"
She took up a little package she had brought with her and went out to meet him.
"There's one errand to do," she said, as they entered the carriage, "but it's on our way. Have him go up Madison Avenue and deliver this."
She showed him the package addressed: "Mr. Rulon Shepler, Personal."
"And this," she said, giving him an unsealed note. "Read it, please!"
He read:
"DEAR RULON SHEPLER:—I am sure you know women too well to have thought I loved you as a wife should love her husband. And I know your bigness too well to believe you will feel harshly toward me for deciding that I could not marry you. I could of course consistently attribute my change to consideration for you. I should have been very little comfort to you. If I should tell you just the course I had mapped out for myself—just what latitude I proposed to claim—I am certain you would agree with me that I have done you an inestimable favour.
"Yet I have not changed because I do not love you, but because I do love some one else with all my heart; so that I claim no credit except for an entirely consistent selfishness. But do try to believe, at the same time, that my own selfishness has been a kindness to you. I send you a package with this hasty letter, and beg you to believe that I shall remain—and am now for the first time—
"Sincerely yours,
"AVICE MILBREY BINES.
"P.S. I should have preferred to wait and acquaint you with my change of intention before marrying, but my husband's plans were made and he would not let me delay."
He sealed the envelope, placed it securely under the cord that bound the package, and their driver delivered it to the man who opened Shepler's door. As their train emerged from the cut at Spuyten Duyvil and sped to the north along the Hudson, the sun blazed forth.
"There, boy,—I knew the sun must shine to-day."
They had finished their breakfast. One-half of the pink roses were on the table, and one from the other half was in her hair.
"I ordered the sun turned on at just this point," replied her husband, with a large air. "I wanted you to see the last of that town under a cloud, so you might not be homesick so soon."
"You don't know me. You don't know what a good wife I shall be."
"It takes nerve to reach up for a strange support and then kick your environment out from under you—as Doctor von Herzlich would have said if he'd happened to think of it."
"But you shall see how I'll help you with your work; I was capable of it all the time."
"But I had to make you. I had to pick you up just as I did that first time, and again down in the mine—and you were frightened because you knew this time I wouldn't let you go."
"Only half-afraid you wouldn't—the other half I was afraid you would. They got all mixed up—I don't know which was worse."
"Well, I admit I foozled my approach on that copper stock—but I won you—really my winnings in Wall Street are pretty dazzling after all, for a man who didn't know the ropes;—there's a mirror directly back of you, Mrs. Bines, if you wish to look at them—with a pink rose over that kissy place just at their temple."
She turned and looked, pretending to be quite unimpressed.
"I always was capable of it, I tell you,—boy!"
"What hurt me worst that night, it showed you could lovesomeone—you did have a heart—but you couldn't love me."
She did not seem to hear at first, nor to comprehend when she went back over his words. Then she stared at him in sudden amazement.
He saw his blunder and looked foolish.
"I see—thank you for saying what you did last night—and you didn't mind—you came to me anyway, in spite ofthat."
She arose, and would have gone around the table to him, but he met her with open arms.
"Oh, you boy! you do love me,—you do!"
"I must buy you one of those nice, shiny black ear-trumpets at the first stop. You can't have been hearing at all well.... See, sweetheart,—out across the river. That's where our big West is, over that way—isn't it fresh and green and beautiful?—and how fast you're going to it—you and your husband. I believe it's going to be a good game... for us both... my love..."