CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Gregory Allen had never intended to let three months pass without telling Jean of his promise to go to Maine. But at first his going had seemed a distant point, and then, as it crept nearer and nearer, the right moment for the telling never came. Now, how could he say: "I am going to Maine to-morrow for a month. I promised Puck when she was ill." He had said nothing of the illness at the time. How drag out his own state of mind on the afternoon he had had tea with Jean and lied to her?
Gregory wished that Jean would say something, almost anything, to break the silence. Not a soul seemed to be alive in the great building about them. On the river occasional excursion steamers turned their dazzling flashlights, lighting the room and Palisades to uncanny, whitish glow. They were huge phantoms moving in the stillness. All the worlds of the universe hung motionless in perfect adjustment. Jean sat utterly at rest, so near him that by the smallest motion he could touch her. But Gregory did not move.
"Did you ever feel anything so restful? It's positive, the silence, not negative.Listento it. I could almost 'go into the silence' myself, if I didn't have to shut my eyes and concentrate. If I could keep them open and—and dissolve instead. I believe it would be rather restful."
"Do you?"
If he hacked at this peace with words he would force an opening through which an opportunity might come, and Jean would know that he did not want to go, except for his promise to Puck. But Jean drifted back into the stillness again and it seemed to Gregory that she actually dissolved into the unfathomable silence.
With a nervous gesture he rose at last.
"It's almost two o'clock."
Jean laughed. "Frightful. What will the hallboy think?"
But Gregory did not answer the laugh. He had yet to tell Jean, and now there was no time to lead up to it. He had to say baldly: "I am going away to-morrow."
Jean was smiling at him.
"There's no need to look so desperately serious about it, Mr. Allen, I just mention it casually."
"Itislate, and I have to be up early." Gregory said and went into the hall for his hat. "I'm going up to Maine to-morrow for a month and I have several things to do before I go."
It seemed hours before he could pull against the force holding him where he was and turn to Jean. She had followed him and was standing near, the teasing smile still in her eyes. For a moment they looked at each other and then Jean said:
"It will be glorious up there now, but—don't forget—the contest closes the first of October."
In his relief Gregory took Jean's hands and bent cavalierly over them.
"Your command, Fair Lady, is obeyed. I promise not to forget." He did not trust himself to kiss her again and went quickly.
Was there another woman in the world like Jean? The sanity of her love made everything possible. In its light even the month ahead did not loom so gloomily. There would be happy hours playing with Puck and good, stiff work to finish the plans in time.
Jean stood for a long time in the hall and then went slowly back and sat down by the window. Something had struck her violently and stunned her power to feel. She saw it as distinctly outside herself, and at the same time it was in some way connected with her. It was like a part of her which Gregory's words had suddenly cut away.
There they lay separated from her, the deep peace and security of the summer, the assurance of her own sensations, that wonderful clarity in which she had seen their love and perfect understanding. And there had been no understanding at all. The world that they both ignored, because it was not a real world, was a real world to him. It was not only real to him, but he must believe that it was so to her. Otherwise he would have told her before.
Jean looked stupidly about the room. Last night she had come back from Pat's and found Martha reading by the table. This morning, at breakfast, Pat had telephoned, and she had helped pack Martha's few things and taken her to the Tube. After that she had rung up Gregory and they had stolen the afternoon together. It was only a few hours ago that they had come in, the first time Gregory had ever been here.
It was all exactly like a game she had played when she was a child. It had been a game of much elaborate preparation. It had required the most violent upheavals of the doll's house, terrific cleaning and washing of everything. Martha always made special cookies and Jean was given ten cents for lemons and candy. Early in the morning of the day itself, Jean began telephoning along the clothes-line to imaginary guests. But no guests ever came to the party, because no children lived near, and in the end Jean had always had her party alone.
At dawn, weary with the endless round, Jean went to bed.