Becky was not well. Aunt Claudia, perceiving her listlessness, decided that she needed a change. Letters were written to the Nantucket grandfather, and plans made for Becky's departure. She was to spend a month on the island, come back to Boston to the Admiral's big old house on the water-side of Beacon Street, and return to Huntersfield for Christmas.
Becky felt that it was good of everybody to take so much trouble. She really didn't care in the least. She occupied herself steadily with each day's routine. She bent her head over the fine embroidery of a robe she was making for Mary. She cut the flowers for the vases and bowls, she recited nursery rhymes to Fiddle, entrancing that captious young person with "Oranges and Lemons" and "Lavender's Blue." She read aloud to the Judge, planned menus for Aunt Claudia, and was in fact such an angel in the house that Truxton, after three days of it, protested.
"Oh, what's the matter with Becky, Moms?"
"Why?"
"She hasn't any pep."
"I know."
"Isn't she well?"
"I have tried to have her see a doctor. But she won't. She insists that she is all right——"
"She is not. She is no more like the old Becky than champagne is like—milk—— Becky was the kind that—went to your head—Mums. You know that—sparkling."
"I have wondered," Mrs. Beaufort said, slowly, "if anything happened while I was away."
"What could happen——"
His mother sighed. "Nothing, I suppose——" She let it go at that. Her intuitions carried her towards the truth. She had learned from Mandy and the Judge that Dalton had spent much time at Huntersfield in her absence. Becky never mentioned him. Her silence spoke eloquently, Mrs. Beaufort felt, of something concealed. Becky was apt to talk of things that interested her. And there had been no doubt of her interest in Dalton before her aunt had gone away.
Randy, coming often now to Huntersfield, had his heart torn for his beloved. No one except himself knew what had happened, and the knowledge stirred him profoundly. He held that burning torches and a stake were none too good for Dalton. He sighed for the old days in Virginia when gentlemen settled such matters in the woods at dawn, with pistols, seconds, a shot or two. Farther back it would have been an affair of knives and tomahawks—Indian chiefs in a death struggle.
But neither duels nor death struggles were in the modern mode, nor would any punishment which he might inflict on Dalton help Becky in this moment of deep humiliation. He knew her pride and the hurt that had come to her, he knew her love, and the deadly inertia which had followed the loss of illusion.
Randy's love was not a selfish love. In that tense moment of Becky's confession on the day of the barbecue, his own hopes had died. The boy in him had died, too, and he had reached the full stature of a man. He wanted to protect and shield—he was all tenderness. He felt that he would dare anything, do anything, if he could bring back to Becky the dreams of which Dalton robbed her.
Night after night he sat in his room up-stairs in the old Schoolhouse, and wrote on "The Trumpeter Swan." It was an outlet for his pent-up emotions, and something of the romance which was denied him, something of the indignation which stirred him, something of the passions of love and revenge which fought within him, drove his pen onward, so that his little tale took on color and life. Crude, perhaps, in form, it was yet a song of youth and patriotism. It was Randy's call to his comrades. There was to be no compromise. They must make men look up and listen—to catch the sound of their clear note. The ideals which had made them fight brutality and greed were living ideals. They were not to be doffed with their khaki and overseas caps. Their country called, the whole world called, for men with faith and courage. There was no place for pessimism, no place for materialism, no place for sordidness.
His hero was, specifically, a man who had come back from the fighting, flaming with the thought of his high future. He had found the world smiling and unconcerned. It was this world which needed to listen to the call of trumpets—high up——
The chapters in which he wrote of love—for there was a woman in the story—were more beautiful than Randy realized. It was of a boy's love that he told—delicately. It was his own story of love denied, yet enriching a life.
Yet—because man cannot live up always to the measure of his own vision, there came often between Randy and the written page the image of George Dalton, smiling and insolent. And he would lay down his pen, and lean his head on his hand, and gaze into space, and sometimes he would speak on in the silence. "I will make him suffer."
It was in one of these moments that he saw how it might be done. "He would let fruit drop to the ground and rot if no other man wanted it," he analyzed keenly, "but if another man tried to pick it up, he would fight for it."
Dalton was still at King's Crest. Mrs. Waterman had not responded satisfactorily to the operation. The doctors had grave doubts as to her recovery. Madge was convalescing at the Flippins'.
Randy had been content, hitherto, to receive bulletins indirectly from both of the invalids. But on the morning following the birth of his great idea he rode on horseback to King's Crest. He looked well on horseback, and in his corduroys, with a soft shirt and flowing tie, a soft felt hat, he was at his best.
He found George and Oscar on the west terrace, shaded by blue and white-striped awnings, with a macaw, red and blue on a perch—a peacock glimmering at the foot of the steps—and the garden blazing beyond.
There were iced drinks in tall glasses—a litter of cigarettes on smoking-stands, magazines and newspapers on the stone floors, packs of cards on a small table. Oscar, hunched up in a high-backed Chinese chair, was white and miserable. George looked bored to extinction.
Randy, coming in, gave a clear-cut impression of strength and youth.
"Mother sent some wine jelly for Mrs. Waterman," he said to Oscar. "It was made from an old recipe, and she thought it might be different. And there were some hundred-leaved roses from our bush. I gave them to your man."
Oscar brightened. He was grateful for the kindness of these queer neighbors of his who would have nothing to do with him and his wife when they were well, and who had seemed to care not at all for his money. But who, now that sickness had come and sorrow, offered themselves and their possessions unstintedly.
"I'll go and see that Flora gets them," he said. "She hasn't any appetite. She's—it's rather discouraging——"
Randy, left alone with Dalton, was debonair and delightful. George, looking at him with speculative eyes, decided that there was more to this boy than he would have believed. He had exceedingly good manners and an ease that was undeniable. There was of course good blood, back of him. And in a way it counted. George knew that he could never have been at ease in old clothes in the midst of elegance.
It was Randy who spoke first of Becky. Dalton's heart jumped when he heard her name. Night after night he had ridden towards Huntersfield, only to turn back before he reached the lower gate. Once he had ventured on foot as far as the garden, and in the hush had called softly, "Becky." But no one had answered. He wondered what he would have done if Becky had responded to his call. "I am not going to be fool enough to marry her," he told himself, angrily, yet knew that if he played the game with Becky there could be no other end to it.
Randy said, quite naturally, that Becky was going away. To Nantucket. He asked if George had been there.
"Once, on Waterman's yacht. It's quaint—but a bit spoiled by summer people——"
"Becky doesn't know the summer people. Her great-grandparents were among the first settlers and the Merediths have never sold the old home."
"She is a pretty little thing," George said. "And she's buried down here."
"I shouldn't call it exactly—buried."
George, with his eyes on the peacock, smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
Randy smiled and his eyes, too, were on the peacock. He was thinking that there were certain points of resemblance between the gorgeous bird and Dalton. They glimmered in the sunlight and strutted a bit——
He came back to say easily, "Has Becky told you of our happiness——"
George gave him a startled glance. "Happiness?"
"We are to be married when she comes back—at Christmas."
"Married——"
"Yes," coolly, "it was rather to be expected, you know. We played together as children—our fathers played together—our grandfathers—our great-grandfathers."
A cold wave seemed to sweep over George. So this young cub would have her beauty!
"Aren't you rather young——?" he demanded, "and what have you to give her?"
"Love," said Randy calmly, "a man's respect for her goodness and worth—for her innocence. She's a little saint in a shrine."
"Is she?" Georgie-Porgie asked, and smiled to himself; "few women are that."
After Randy had gone George Dalton walked the floor. He knew innocence when he saw it, and he knew that Randy had told the truth. Becky Bannister was as white as the doves that were flittering down to the garden pool to drink. He had never cared particularly for innocence. But he cared for Becky. He knew now that he cared tremendously. Randy had made him know it. It had not seemed so bad to think of Becky as breaking her heart and waiting for a word from him. It seemed very bad, indeed, when he thought of her as married to Randy.
He felt that, of course, she did not love Randy; that he, Georgie-Porgie, had all that she had to give—— But woman-like, she had taken this way to get back at him. He wondered if she had sent Randy.
Up and down the terrace he raged like a lion. He wanted to show that cub—oh, if he might show him——!
Randy had known that he would rage, and as he rode home he had the serene feeling that he had stuck a splinter in George's flesh.
Oscar Waterman joined George on the terrace, but noticed nothing. His mind was full of Flora. "I am sorry young Paine went so soon. I wanted to thank him. Flora can't eat the jelly, but it was good of them to send it. She can't eat anything. She's worse, George. I don't know how I am going to stand it."
George was in no mood for condolence. Yet he was not quite heartless. "Look here," he said, "you mustn't give up."
"George, if she dies," Oscar said, wildly, "what do you think will happen to me? I never planned for this. I planned for a good time. I thought maybe that when we were old—one of us might go. But it wouldn't be fair to take her now—and leave me."
"I have given her—everything——" he went on. "I—I think I've been a good husband. I have always loved her a lot, George, you know that."
He was a plain little man, but at this moment he gained something of dignity. And there was this to say for him, that what he felt for Flora was a deeper emotion than George had ever known.
"The doctor says the crisis comes to-night. I am not going to bed. I couldn't sleep. George—I've been wondering if I oughtn't to call in—some kind of clergyman—to see her."
"People don't, nowadays, do they?" George asked rather uncomfortably.
"Well, I don't see why they shouldn't. There ought to be somebody to pray for Flora."
There was, it developed upon inquiry, a little old rector who lived not far away. George went for him in his big car.
The little man, praying beside Flora's gorgeous bed, felt that this was the hundredth sheep who had wandered and was found. The other ninety and nine were safely in the fold. He had looked after the spiritual condition of the county for fifty years. There had been much to discourage him, but in the main if they strayed they came back.
He prayed with fervor, the fine old prayers of his church.
"Look down from heaven, we humbly beseech thee, with the eyes of mercy upon this child now lying upon the bed of sickness: Visit her, O Lord, with thy salvation; deliver her in thy good appointed time from bodily pain, and save her soul for thy mercies' sake; that, if it shall be thy pleasure to prolong her days here on earth, she may live for thee, and be an instrument of thy glory, by serving thee faithfully, and doing good in her generation; or else receive her into those heavenly habitations, where the souls of those who sleep in the Lord Jesus enjoy perpetual rest and felicity."
Flora, lying inert and bloodless, opened her eyes. "Say it again," she whispered. "Say it again."
Randy rode straight from Hamilton Hill to Huntersfield. He found Becky in the Bird Room. She had her head tied up in a white cloth, and a big white apron enveloped her. She was as white as the whiteness in which she was clad, and there were purple shadows under her eyes. The windows were open and a faint breeze stirred the curtains. The shade of the great trees softened the light to a dim green. After the glare of Oscar's terrace it was like coming from a blazing desert to the bottom of the sea.
There was a wide seat under a window which looked out towards the hills. Becky sat down on it. "Everybody is out," she said, "except Aunt Claudia. She is taking a nap up-stairs."
"I didn't come to see everybody, Becky. I came to see you."
"I am glad you came. I can rest a bit."
"You work as hard as if you had to do it."
She leaned back against the green linen cushions of the window seat and looked up at him. "I do have to do it. There is nobody else. Mandy is busy, and, anyhow, Grandfather doesn't like to have the servants in here. And neither do I—— It is almost as if the birds were alive—and loved me."
Randy hugged his knee and meditated. "But there are lots of rich women who wouldn't dust a room."
She made a gesture of disdain. "Oh, that kind of rich people."
"What kind?"
"The kind that aren't used to their money. Who think ladies—are idle. Sister Loretto says that is the worst kind—the awful kind. She talked to me every day about it. She said that money was a curse when people used it only for their ease. Sister Loretto hates laziness. She had money herself before she took her vows, but now she works every hour of the day and she says it brings her happiness."
Randy shook his head. "Most of us need to play around a bit, Becky."
"Do we? I—I think most women would be better off if they were like Sister Loretto."
"They would not. Stop talking rot, Becky, and take that thing off your head. It makes you look like a nun."
"I know. I saw myself in the glass. I don't mind looking like a nun, Randy."
"Well, I mind. Turn your head and I'll take out that pin."
"Don't be silly, Randy."
He persisted. "Keep still while I take it out——"
He found the pin and unwound the white cloth. "There," he said, drawing a long breath, "you look like yourself again. Yon were so—austere, you scared me, Becky."
He was again hugging his knees. "When are you going away?"
"On the twenty-ninth. I shall stay over until next week for the Merriweathers' ball."
"I didn't know whether you would feel equal to it."
"I shall go on Mary's account. It will be her introduction to Truxton's friends, and if I am there it will be easier for her. She has a lovely frock, jade green tulle with a girdle of gold brocade. It came down for me with a lot of other clothes, and it needed only a few changes for her to wear it."
"You will be glad to get away?"
"It will be cooler—and I need the change. But it is always more formal up there—they remember that I have money. Here it is forgotten."
"I wish I could forget it."
"Why should you ever think of it?" she demanded with some heat. "I am the same Becky with or without it."
"Not quite the same," he was turning his hat in his hand. Then, raising his eyes and looking at her squarely, he said what he had come to say; "I have—I have just been to see Dalton, Becky."
A wave of red washed over her neck, touched her chin, her cheeks. "I don't see what that has to do with me."
"It has a great deal to do with you. I told him you were going to marry me."
The wave receded. She was chalk-white.
"Randy, how dared you do such a thing?"
"I dared," said Randy, with tense fierceness, "because a man like Dalton wants what other men want. He will think about you a lot, and I want him to think. He won't sleep to-night, and I want him to stay awake. He will wonder whether you love me, and he will be afraid that you do—and I want him to be afraid."
"But it was a lie, Randy. I am not going to marry you."
"Do you think that I meant that——? That I am expecting anything for myself?"
"No," unsteadily, her slender body trembling as if from cold, "but what did you mean?"
"I told you. Dalton's got to come back to you and beg—on his knees—and he will come when he thinks you are mine——"
"I don't want him to come. And when you talk like that it makes me feel—smirched——"
Dead silence. Then, "It was a gentleman's lie——"
"Gentlemen do not lie. Go to him this minute, Randy, and tell him that it isn't true."
"Give me three days, Becky. If in that time he doesn't try to see you or call you up, I'll go—— But give me three days."
She wavered. "What good will it do?"
He caught up her cold little hands in his. "You will have a chance to get back at him. And when you stick in the knife, you can turn it—until it hurts."
It was while the family at Huntersfield were at dinner that the telephone rang. Calvin answered, and came in to say that Miss Becky was wanted. She went listlessly. But the first words over the wire stiffened her.
It was George's voice, quick imploring. Saying that he had something to tell her. That he must see her——
"Let me come, Becky."
"Of course."
"You mean that I—may——?"
"Why not?"
He seemed to hesitate. "But I thought——"
Her laugh was light and clear. "I must get back to my dinner. I have only had my soup. And I am simply—starving——"
It was not what he had expected. Not in the least. As he hung up the receiver he was conscious too of a baffled feeling that Becky had, in a sense, held the reins of the situation.
In spite of her famished condition, Becky did not at once go to the dining-room. She called up King's Crest, and asked for Randy.
She wanted to know, she said, whether he had anything on for the evening. No? Then could he come over and bring the boarders? Oh, as many of them as would come. And they would dance. She was boredto death. Her laugh was still clear and light, and Randy wondered.
Then she went back to the dinner table and ate the slice of lamb which the Judge had carved for her. She ate mint sauce and mashed potatoes, she ate green corn pudding, and a salad, and watermelon. Her cheeks were red, and Aunt Claudia felt that Becky was looking much better. For how could Aunt Claudia know that everything that Becky ate was like sawdust to her palate. She found herself talking and laughing a great deal, and Truxton teased her.
After dinner she went up-stairs with Mary and showed her a new way to do her hair, and found an entrancing wisp of a frock for Mary to wear.
"It will be great fun having the boarders from King's Crest. There are a lot of young people of all kinds—and not many of them our kind, Mary."
Mary smiled at her. "I am not quite your kind, am I?"
"Why not? And oh, Mary, you are happy, happy. And you are lovely with your hair like that, close to your head and satin-smooth."
Mary, surveying herself in the glass, gave an excited laugh. "Do you know when I married Truxton I never thought of this?"
"Of what?" Becky asked.
"Of pretty clothes—and dances—and dinners. I just knew that he—loved me, and that he had to leave me. But I don't suppose I could make the world believe it."
"Truxton believes it, doesn't he, Mary?"
"Yes."
"And I believe it. And what do you care for the others? It is what we know of ourselves, Mary," she drew a quick breath. "It is what we know of ourselves——"
Becky was wearing the simple frock of pale blue in which George had seen her on that first night when he came to Huntersfield.
"Aren't you going to change?" Mary asked.
"No. It is too much trouble." Becky was in front of the mirror. Her pearls caught the light of the candles. Her bronze hair was a shining wave across her forehead. "It is too much trouble," she said, again, and turned from the mirror.
She had a dozen frocks that had come in the rosy hamper—frocks that would have made the boarders open their eyes. Frocks that would have made Dalton open his. But Becky had the feeling that this was not the moment for lovely clothes. She felt that she would be cheapened if she decked herself for George.
When the two girls went down-stairs Truxton was waiting for his wife. "I thought you would never come," he said. He drew her within the circle of his arm, and they went out into the garden. The Judge and Mrs. Beaufort were on the porch. Becky sat on the step and leaned her head against Aunt Claudia's knee.
"What in the world made you ask all those people over, Becky?" the Judge demanded.
"Oh, they're great fun, Grandfather, and I felt like it."
"Have you planned anything for them to eat, Claudia?"
"Watermelons. Calvin has put a lot of them in the spring."
The stars were thick overhead. Becky looked up at them and relaxed a little. Since Dalton had spoken to her over the wire she had gone through the motions of doing normal things. She had eaten and talked, and now she was sitting quite still on the step while Aunt Claudia smoothed her hair, and the Judge talked of things to eat.
But shut up within her was a clock which ticked and never stopped. "He will come—when he thinks—you are mine—— He will come—when he thinks—you are mine——"
Randy and his mother arrived in Little Sister, with two of the boarders for good measure in the back seat. They had dropped Major Prime at Flippins', where he was to make a call on Madge MacVeigh. He had promised to come later, however, if Randy would drive over and get him.
The rest of the boarders were packed variously into their cars and the surrey, and as soon as they arrived they proceeded to occupy the lawn and the porch, and to overflow the garden. They made a great deal of pleasant noise about it, and the white gowns of the women, and the white flannels of the men gave an impressionistic effect of faint blue against the deeper blue of the night.
Within the house, the rugs were up in the drawing-room, the library, the dining-room, and the wide hall; there sounded, presently, the tinkling music of the phonograph, and there was the unceasing movement of white-clad figures which seemed to float in a golden haze.
Becky danced a great deal, with Randy, with the younger boarders, and with the genial gentleman. She laughed with an air of unaffected gayety. And she felt that her heart stopped beating, when at last she looked up and saw Dalton standing in the door.
She at once went towards him, and gave him her hand. "I wonder if you know everybody?"
Her clear eyes met his without self-consciousness. He attempted a swagger. "I don't want to know everybody. How do they happen to be here?"
"I asked them. And they are really very nice."
He did not see the niceness. He had thought to find her in the setting which belonged to her beauty. The silent night, the fragrance of the garden, the pale statues among the trees, and himself playing the game with a greater sense of its seriousness than ever before.
Throughout the evening George watched for a chance to see Becky alone. Without conspicuously avoiding him, she had no time for him. He complained constantly. "I want to talk to you. Run away with me, Becky—and let these people go."
"It isn't proper for a hostess to leave her guests."
"Are you trying to—punish me?"
"For what?"
So—she too was playing——! She had let him come that he might see her—indifferent.
Becky had danced with George once, and with Randy three times. George had protested, and Becky had said, "But I promised him before you came——"
"You knew I was coming?"
"Yes."
"You might have kept a few——"
She seemed to consider that. "Yes, I might. But not from Randy——"
At last he said to her, "I have been out in the garden. There is a star shining in the little pool where the fishes are. I want you to see the star."
It was thus he had won her. He had always seen stars shining in little pools, or a young moon rising from a rosy bed. But it had never meant anything. She shook her head. "I should like to see your little star. But I haven't time."
"Are you afraid to come?"
"Why should I be?"
"Well, there's Love—in the garden," he was daring—his sparkling eyes tried to hold hers and failed.
She was looking straight beyond him to where Randy stood, by a window, tall and thin with his Indian profile, and his high-held head.
"We are going to have watermelons in a minute," was her romantic response to Dalton's fire. "You'd better stay and eat some."
"I don't want to eat. And if you aren't afraid you'll come."
Calvin and Mandy and their son, John, with Flippins' Daisy, had assembled the watermelons on a long table out-of-doors. Above the table on the branch of a tree was hung an old ship's lantern brought by Admiral Meredith to his friend, the Judge. It gave a faint but steady light, and showed the pink and green and white of the fruit, the dusky faces of the servants as they cut and sliced, and handed plates to the eager and waiting guests.
Becky, standing back in the shadows with Randy by her side, watched the men surge towards the table, and retire with their loads of lusciousness. Grinning boys were up to their ears in juice, girls, bare-armed and bare-necked, reached for plates held teasingly aloft. It was all rather innocently bacchanal—a picture which for Becky had an absolutely impersonal quality. She had entertained her guests as she had eaten her dinner, outwardly doing the normal and conventional thing, while her mind was chaotic. This jumble of people on the lawn seemed unreal and detached. The only real people in the world were herself and Dalton.
"How did you happen to ask us?" Randy was saying.
"Because I wanted you——"
"That doesn't explain it. It has something to do with Dalton——"
"He said he was coming—and I wanted a crowd."
"Were you afraid to see him alone?"
"He says that I am."
"When did he say it?"
"Just now. He's in the garden, Randy."
"Waiting for you?"
"He says that he is waiting."
Randy gave a quick exclamation. "Surely you won't go."
"Why not? I've got to turn—the knife——"
He groaned. "So this is what I've let you in for——"
"Well, I shall see it through, Randy."
"Becky, don't go to him in the garden."
"Why not?"
"The whole thing is wrong," the boy said, slowly. "I lied to give you your opportunity, and now, I'd rather die than think of you out there——"
"Then you don't trust me, Randy?"
"My dear, I do. But I don't trust—him."
George had known that she would come. Yet when he saw the white blur of her gown against the blackness of the bushes, his heart leaped. All through the ages men have waited for women in gardens—"She is coming, my own, my sweet——" and farther back, "Make haste, my beloved," and in the beginning, as Mandy could have told, a serpent waited.
Dalton was not, of course, a serpent. He was merely a very selfish man, who had always had what he wanted, and now he wanted Becky. He was still, perhaps, playing the game, but he was playing it in dead earnest with Randy as his opponent and Becky the prize.
She recognized a new note in his voice and was faintly disturbed by it.
"So you are not afraid?"
"No."
She sat down on the bench. Behind them was the pale statue of Diana, the pool was at their feet with its little star.
"Why should I be afraid?" she asked.
"You are trying to shut me out of your heart, Becky—and you are afraid I may try to—open the door."
"Silly," she said, clearly and lightly, but with a sense of panic. Oh, why had she come? The darkness seemed to shut her in; his voice was beating against her heart——
He was saying that he loved her,loved her. Did she understand? That he had beenmiserable! His defense was masterly. He played on her imagination delicately, as if she were a harp, and his fingers touched the strings. He realized what a cad he must have seemed. But she was a saint in a shrine—it will be seen that he did not hesitate to borrow from Randy. She was a saint in a shrine, and well, he knelt at her feet—a sinner. "You needn't think that I don't know what I have done, Becky. I swept you along with me without a thought of anything serious in it for either of us. It was just a game, sweetheart, and lots of people play it, but it isn't a game now, it is the most serious thing in life."
There is no eloquence so potent as that which is backed by genuine passion. Becky coming down through the garden had been so sure of herself. She had felt that pride would be the rock to which she would anchor her resistance to his enchantments. Yet here in the garden——
"Oh,please," she said, and stood up.
He rose, too, and towered above her. "Becky," he said, hoarsely, "it's the real thing—for me——"
His spell was upon her. She was held by it—drawn by it against her will. Her cry was that of a frightened and fascinated bird.
He bent down. His face was a white circle in the dark, but she could see the sparkle of his eyes. "Kiss me, Becky."
"I shall never kiss you again."
"I love you."
"Love," she said, with a sort of tense quiet, "does not kiss and run away."
"My heart never ran away. I swear it. Marry me, Becky."
He had never expected to ask her. But now that he had done it, he was glad.
She was swayed by his earnestness, by the thought of all he had meant to her in her dreams of yesterday. But to-day was not yesterday, and George was not the man of those dreams. Yet, why not? There was the quick laughter, with its new ring of sincerity, the sparkling eyes, the Apollo head.
"Marry me, Becky."
Beyond the pool which reflected the little star was the dark outline of the box hedge, and beyond the hedge, the rise of the hill showed dark against the dull silver of the sky—a shadow seemed to rise suddenly in that dim brightness, the tall thin shadow of a man with a clear-cut profile, and a high-held head!
Becky drew a sharp breath—then faced Dalton squarely. "I am going to marry Randy."
Becky drew a sharp breath--then faced Dalton squarely. "I am going to marry Randy."[Illustration: Becky drew a sharp breath--then faced Daltonsquarely. "I am going to marry Randy."]
Becky drew a sharp breath--then faced Dalton squarely. "I am going to marry Randy."[Illustration: Becky drew a sharp breath--then faced Daltonsquarely. "I am going to marry Randy."]
His laugh was triumphant——
"Do you think I am going to let you? You are mine, Becky, and you know it.You are mine——"
Randy, having made a record run with Little Sister to the Flippins', had brought back Major Prime. When he returned Becky had disappeared. He looked for her, knowing all the time that she had gone down into the garden to meet Dalton. And he had brought Dalton back to her, he had given him this opportunity to plead his cause, had given him the incentive of a man of his kind to still pursue; he had, as he had said, let Becky in for it, and now he was raging at the thought.
Nellie Custis, padding at his heels, had known that something disturbed him. He walked restlessly from room to room, from porch to porch, across the lawn, skirted the garden, stopped now and then to listen, called once when he saw a white figure alone by the big gate, "Becky!"
Nellie knew who it was that he wanted. And at last she instituted a search on her own account. She went through the garden, passed the pool, found Becky's feet in blue slippers, and rushed back to her master with an air of discovery.
But Randy would not follow her. He must, he knew, set a curb on his impatience. He walked beyond the gate, following the ridge of the hill to the box hedge. He was not in the least aware that his shadow showed up against the silver of the sky. Perhaps Fate guided him to the ridge, who knows? At any rate, it seemed so afterwards to Becky, who felt that the shadow of Randy against the silver sky was the thing that saved her.
She gave the old Indian cry, and he answered it.
His shadow wavered on the ridge. He was lost for a moment against the blackness of the hedge, and emerged on the other side of the pool.
"Randy," she was a bit breathless, "here we are, Mr. Dalton and I. I saw you on the ridge. You have no idea how tall your shadow seemed——"
She was talking in that clear light voice which was not her own. Dalton said sullenly, "Hello, Paine." And Randy's heart was singing, "She called me."
The three of them walked to the house together. Becky had insisted that she must go back to her guests. George left them at the step. He was for the moment beaten. As he drove his car madly back to King's Crest, he tried to tell himself that it was all for the best. That he must let Becky alone. He would be a fool to throw himself away on a shabby slender slip of a thing because she had clear eyes and bronze hair.
But it was not because of her slenderness and clear eyes and bronze hair that Becky held him, it was because of the force within her which baffled him.
The guests were leaving. They had had the time of their lives. They packed themselves into their various cars, and the surrey, and shouted "good-bye." The Major stayed and sat on the lawn to talk to the Judge and Mrs. Beaufort. Mary and Truxton ascended the stairs to the Blue Room, where little Fiddle slept in the Bannister crib that had been brought down from the attic.
Becky and Randy went into the Bird Room and sat under the swinging lamp. "I have something to tell you, Randy," Becky had said, and as in the days of their childhood the Bird Room seemed the place for confidences.
Becky curled herself up in the Judge's big chair like a tired child. Randy on the other side of the empty fireplace said, "You ought to be in bed, Becky."
"I shan't—sleep," nervously. There were deep shadows under her troubled eyes. "I shan't sleep when I go."
Randy came over and knelt by her side. "My dear, my dear," he said, "I am afraid I have let you in for a lot of trouble."
"But the things you said were true—he came—because he thought I—belonged to—you."
She hesitated. Then she reached out her hand to his. "Randy," she said, "I told him I was going to marry—you."
His hand had gone over hers, and now he held it in his strong clasp. "Of course it isn't true, Becky."
"I am going to make it true."
Dead silence. Then, "No, my dear."
"Why not?"
"You don't love me."
"But I like you," feverishly, "I like you, tremendously, and don't you want to marry me, Randy?"
"God knows that I do," said poor Randy, "but I must not. It—it would be Heaven for me, you know that. But it wouldn't be quite—cricket—to let you do it, Becky."
"I am not doing it for your sake. I am doing it for my own. I want to feel—safe. Do I seem awfully selfish when I say that?"
A great wave of emotion swept over him. She had turned to him for protection, for tenderness. In that moment Randy grew to the full stature of a man. He lifted her hand and kissed it. "You are making me very happy, Becky, dear."
It was a strange betrothal. Behind them the old eagle brooded with outstretched wings, the owl, round-eyed, looked down upon them and withheld his wisdom, the Trumpeter, white as snow in his glass cage, was as silent as the Sphinx.
"You are making me very happy, Becky, dear," said poor Randy, knowing as he said it that such happiness was not for him.
The Major's call on Miss MacVeigh had been a great success. She was sitting up, and had much to say to him. Throughout the days of her illness and convalescence, the Major had kept in touch with her. He had sent her quaint nosegays from the King's Crest garden, man-tied and man-picked. He had sent her nice soldierly notes, asking her to call upon him if there was anything he could do for her. He had sent her books, and magazines, and now on this first visit, he brought back the "Pickwick" which he had picked up in the road after the accident.
"I have wondered," Madge said, "what became of it."
They were in the Flippin sitting-room. Madge was in a winged chair with a freshly-washed gray linen cover. The chair had belonged to Mrs. Flippin's father, and for fifty years had held the place by the east window in summer and by the fireplace in winter. Oscar had wanted to bring things from Hamilton Hill to make Madge comfortable. But she had refused to spoil the simplicity of the quiet old house. "Everything that is here belongs here, Oscar," she had told him, "and I like it."
She wore a mauve negligee that was sheer and soft and flowing, and her burnt-gold hair was braided and wound around her head in a picturesque and becoming coiffure.
As she turned the pages of the little book the Major noticed her hands. They were white and slender, and she wore only one ring—a long amethyst set in silver.
"Do you play?" he asked abruptly.
"Yes. Why?"
"Your hands show it."
She smiled at him. "I am afraid that my hands don't quite tell the truth." She held them up so that the light of the lamp shone through them. "They are really a musician's hands, aren't they? And I am only a dabbler in that as in everything else."
"You can't expect me to believe that."
"But I am. I have intelligence. But I'm a 'dunce with wits.' I know what I ought to do but I don't do it. I think that I have brains enough to write, I am sure I have imagination enough to paint, I have strength enough when I am well to"—she laughed,—"scrub floors. But I don't write or play or paint—or scrub floors—I don't believe that there is one thing in the world that I can do as well as Mary Flippin makes biscuits."
Her eyes seemed to challenge him to deny her assertion. He settled himself lazily in his chair, and asked about the book.
"Tell me why you like Dickens, when nobody reads him in these days except ourselves."
"I like him because in my next incarnation I want to live in the kind of world he writes about."
He was much interested. "You do?"
She nodded. "Yes. I never have. My world has always been—cut and dried, conventional, you know the kind." The slender hand with the amethyst ring made a little gesture of disdain. "There were three of us, my mother and my father and myself. Everything in our lives was very perfectly ordered. We were not very rich—not in the modern sense, and we were not very poor, and we knew a lot of nice people. I went to school with girls of my own kind, an exclusive school. I went away summers to our own cottage in an exclusive North Shore colony. We took our servants with us. After my mother died I went to boarding-school, and to Europe in summer, and when my school days were ended, and I acquired a stepmother, I set up an apartment of my own. It has Florentine things in it, and Byzantine things, and things from China and Japan, and the colors shine like jewels under my lamps—you know the effect. And my kitchen is all in white enamel, and the cook does things by electricity, and when I go away in summer my friends have Italian villas—like the Watermans, on the North Shore, although all of my friends are not like the Watermans." She threw this last out casually, not as a criticism, but that he might, it seemed, withhold judgment of her present choice of associates. "And I have never known the world of good cheer that Dickens writes about—wide kitchens, and teakettles singing and crickets chirping and everybody busy with things that interest them. Do you know that there are really no bored people in Dickens except a few aristocrats? None of the poor people are bored. They may be unhappy, but there's always some recompense in a steaming drink or savory stew, or some gay little festivity;—even the vagabonds seem to get something out of life. I realize perfectly that I've never had the thrills from a bridge game that came to the Marchioness when she played cards with Dick Swiveller—by stealth."
She talked rapidly, charmingly. He could not be sure how much in earnest she might be—but she made out her case and continued her argument.
"When I was a child I walked on gray velvet carpets, and there were etchings on the wall, and chilly mirrors between the long windows in the drawing-room. And the kitchen was in the basement and I never went down. There wasn't a cozy spot anywhere. None of us were cozy, my mother wasn't. She was very lovely and sparkling and went out a great deal and my father sparkled too. He still does. But there was really nothing to draw us together—like the Cratchits or even the Kenwigs. And we were never comfortable and merry like all of these lovely people in Pickwick."
She went on wistfully, "When I was nine, I found these little books in our library and after that I enjoyed vicariously the life I had never lived. That's why I like it here—Mrs. Flippin's kettle sings—and the crickets chirp—and Mr. and Mrs. Flippin are comfortable—and cozy—and content."
It was a long speech. "So now yon see," she said, as she ended, "why I like Dickens."
"Yes. I see. And so—in your next incarnation you are going to be like——"
"Little Dorrit."
He laughed and leaned forward. "I can't imagine—you."
"She really had a heavenly time. Dickens tried to make you feel sorry for her. But she had the best of it all through. Somebody always wanted her."
"But she was imposed upon. And her unselfishness brought her heavy burdens."
"She got a lot out of it in the end, didn't she? And what do selfish people get? I'm one of them. I live absolutely for myself. There isn't a person except Flora who gets anything of service or self-sacrifice out of me. I came down here because she wanted me, but I hated to come. The modern theory is that unselfishness weakens. And the modern psychologist would tell you that little Dorrit was all wrong. She gave herself for others—and it didn't pay. But does the other thing pay?"
"Selfishness?"
"Yes. I'm selfish, and Oscar is, and Flora, and George Dalton, and most of the people we know. And we are all bored to death. If being unselfish is interesting, why not let us be unselfish?" Her lively glance seemed to challenge him, and they laughed together.
"I know what you mean."
"Of course you do. Everybody does whothinks."
"And so you are going to wait for the next plane to do the things that you want to do?"
"Yes."
"But why—wait?"
"How can I break away? I am tied into knots with the people whom I have always known; and I shall keep on doing the things I have always done, just as I shall keep on wearing pale purples and letting my skin get burned, so that I may seem distinctive."
It came to him with something of a shock that she did these things with intention. That the charms which seemed to belong to her were carefully planned.
Yet how could he tell if what she said was true, when her eyes laughed?
"I shall get all I can out of being here. Mary Flippin is going to let me help her make butter, and Mrs. Flippin will teach me to make corn-bread, and some day I am going fishing with the Judge and Mr. Flippin and learn to fry eggs out-of-doors——"
"So those are the things you like?"
She nodded. "I think I do. George Dalton says it is only because I crave a change. But it isn't that. And I haven't told him the way I feel about it—the Dickens way—as I have told you."
He was glad that she had not talked to Dalton as she had talked to him.
"I wonder," he said slowly, "why you couldn't shake yourself free from the life which binds you?"
"I'm not strong enough. I'm like the drug-fiend, who doesn't want his drug, but can't give it up."
"Perhaps you need—help. There are doctors of everything, you know, in these days."
"None that can cure me of the habit of frivolity—of the claims of custom——"
"If a man takes a drug, he is cured, by substituting something else for a while until he learns to do without it."
"What would you substitute for—my drug?"
"I'll have to think about it. May I come again and tell you?"
"Of course. I am dying to know."
Mrs. Flippin entered just then with a tall pitcher of lemonade and a plate of delicate cakes. "I think Miss MacVeigh is looking mighty fine," she said, "don't you, Major?"
He would not have dared to tell how fine she looked to him.
He limped across the room with the plate of cakes, and poured lemonade into a glass for Madge. Her eyes followed his strong soldierly figure. What a man he must have been before the war crippled him. What a man he was still, and his strength was not merely that of body. She felt the strength too of mind and soul.
"I think," said Mrs. Flippin that night, "that Major Prime is one of the nicest men."
Madge was in bed. The nurse had made her ready for the night, and was out on the porch with Mr. Flippin. Mrs. Flippin had fallen into the habit of having a little nightly talk with Madge. She missed her daughter, and Madge was pleasant and friendly.
"I think that Major Prime is one of the nicest men," repeated Mrs. Flippin as she sat down beside the bed, "but what a dreadful thing that he is lame."
"I am not sure," Madge said, "that it is dreadful."
She hastened to redeem herself from any possible charge of bloodthirstiness.
"I don't mean," she said, "that it isn't awful for a man to lose his leg. But men who go through a thing like that and come out—conquerors—are rather wonderful, Mrs. Flippin."
Madge had hold of Mrs. Flippin's hand. She often held it in this quiet hour, and the idea rather amused her. She was not demonstrative, and it seemed inconceivable that she should care to hold Mrs. Flippins' hand. But there was a motherliness about Mrs. Flippin, a quality with which Madge had never before come closely in contact. "It is like the way I used to feel when I was a little girl and said my prayers at night," she told herself.
Madge did not say her prayers now. Nobody did, apparently. She thought it rather a pity. It was a comfortable thing to do. And it meant a great deal if you only believed in it.
"Do you say your prayers, Mrs. Flippin?" she asked suddenly.
Mrs. Flippin was getting used to Madge's queer questions. She treated them as a missionary might treat the questions of a beautiful and appealing savage, who having gone with him to some strange country was constantly interrogatory.
"She don't seem to know anything about the things we do," Mrs. Flippin told her husband. "She got the nurse to wheel her out into the kitchen this afternoon, and watched me frost a cake and cut out biscuits. And she says that she has never seen anything so sociable as the teakettle, the way it rocks and sings."
So now when Madge asked Mrs. Flippin if she said her prayers, Mrs. Flippin said, "Do you mean at night?"
"Yes."
"Bob and I say them together," said Mrs. Flippin. "We started on our wedding night, and we ain't ever stopped."
It was a simple statement of a sublime fact. For thirty years this plain man and this plain woman had kept alive the spiritual flame on the household altar. No wonder that peace was under this roof and serenity.
Madge, as she lay there holding Mrs. Flippin's hand, looked very young, almost like a little girl. Her hair was parted and the burnished braids lay heavy on her lovely neck. Her thin fine gown left her arms bare. "Mrs. Flippin," she said, "I wish I could live here always, and have you come every night and sit and hold my hand."
Her eyes were smiling and Mrs. Flippin smiled back. "You'd get tired."
"No," said Madge, "I don't believe anybody ever gets tired of goodness. Not real goodness. The kind that isn't hypocritical or priggish. And in these days it is so rare, that one just loves it. I am bored to death with near-bad people, Mrs. Flippin, and near-good ones. I'd much rather have them real saints and real sinners."
The nurse came in just then, and Mrs. Flippin went away. And after a time the house was very still. Madge's bed was close to the window. Outside innumerable fireflies studded the night with gold. Now and then a screech-owl sounded his mournful note. It was a ghostly call, and there was the patter of little feet on the porch as the old cat played with her kittens in the warm dark. But Madge was not afraid. She had a sense of great content as she lay there and thought of the things she had said to Major Prime. It was not often that she revealed herself, and when she did it was still rarer to meet understanding. But he had understood. She was sure of that, and she would see him soon. He had promised. And she would not have to go back to Oscar and Flora until she was ready. Flora was better, but still very weak. It would be much wiser, the doctor had said, if she saw no one but her nurses for several days.