CHAPTER VIII
Richard Pinckney, like most people, had the defects of his qualities, buthe was different from others in this: his temper was quick and blazingwhen roused, yet on rare occasions it could hold its heat and smoulder,and keep alive indefinitely.
When in this condition he shewed nothing of his feelings except towardsthe person against whom he was in wrath.
Towards them he exhibited the two main characteristics of the NorthPole--Distance and Ice.
Phyl felt the frost almost immediately. He talked to her just the same asof old but his pleasantness and laughter were gone and he never sought hereye. She knew at once that it was the business with Silas that had causedthis change, and she would have been entirely miserable but for theknowledge of two great facts: she was innocent of any disloyalty to him,he had broken off his engagement to Frances Rhett. Instinct told her thathe cared for her, Miss Pinckney had told her the same thing.
Yet day after day passed without bringing the slightest change in RichardPinckney.
That gentleman after many debates with himself had arrived at thedetermination against will, against reason, against Love, and againstnature to have nothing more to do with Phyl.
Old Pepper Pinckney, that volcano of the past had suffered a fanciedinsult from his wife; no one knew of it, no one suspected it till on hisdeath his will disclosed it by the fact that he had left the lady--onedollar. The will being unwitnessed--that was the sort of man he was--didnot hold; all the same, it held an unsuspected part of his character upfor public inspection.
Richard, incapable of such an act, still had Pepper Pinckney for anancestor. Ancestors leave us more than their pictures.
Having come to this momentous decision, he arrived at another.
One morning at breakfast he announced his intention of going to New Yorkon business, he would start on the morrow and be gone a month. TheBeauregards had always been bothering him to go on a visit and he might aswell kill two birds with one stone.
Miss Pinckney made little resistance to the idea. She had noticed thecoolness between the young people; knowing how much they cared one for theother she had little fear as to the end of the matter and she fancied achange might do good.
But to Phyl it seemed that the end of the world had come.
All that day she scarcely spoke except to Miss Pinckney. She was like aperson stunned by some calamity.
Richard Pinckney, notwithstanding the fact that he was to leave for NewYork on the morrow, did not return to dinner that night. Phyl wentupstairs early but she did not go to her room, she went to Juliet's.Sorrow attracts sorrow. Juliet had always seemed more than a friend, morethan a sister, even.
There were times when the ungraspable idea came before her that Juliet washerself. The vision of the Civil War sometimes came back to her and alwayswith the hint, like a half veiled threat, that Richard the man she lovedwas Rupert the man she had loved, that following the dark law ofduplication that works alike for types and events, forms and ideas, herhistory was to repeat the history of Juliet.
She had saved Richard from death at the hands of Silas Grangerson, herlove for him had met Fate face to face and won, but Fate has many reserveweapons. She is an old warrior, and the conqueror of cities and kings doesnot turn from her purpose because of a momentary defeat.
Phyl shut the door of the room, put the lamp she was carrying on a tableand opened the long windows giving upon the piazza. The night wasabsolutely still, not a breath of wind stirred the foliage of the gardenand the faint sounds of the city rose through the warm night. The waningmoon would not rise yet for an hour and the stars had the sky tothemselves.
She turned from the window and going to the little bureau by the dooropened the secret drawer and took out the packet of letters. Then drawingan armchair close to the table and the lamp she sat down, undid the ribbonand began to read the letters.
She felt just as though Juliet were talking to her, telling her of hertroubles. She read on placing each letter on the table in turn, one uponthe other.
The chimes of St. Michael's came through the open window but they wereunheeded.
When she had read through all the letters she picked out one. The onecontaining the passionate declaration of Juliet's love.
She re-read it and then placed it on the table on top of the others.
If she could speak of Richard like that!
But she could do nothing and say nothing. It is one of the curses ofwomanhood that a woman may not say to a man "I love you," that theinitiative is taken out of her hands.
Phyl was a creature of impulse and it was now for the first time in herlife that she recognised this fatal barrier on the woman's side. With therecognition came the impulse to over jump it.
He cared for her, she knew, or had cared for her. She felt that it onlyrequired a movement on her side, a touch, a word to destroy the ice thathad formed between them. If he were to go away he might never return, nay,he would never return, of that she felt sure.
And he would go away unless she spoke. She must speak, not to-morrow inthe cold light of day when things were impossible, but now, at once, shewould say to him simply the truth, "I love you." If he were to turn awayor repulse her it would kill her. No matter, life was absolutely nothing.
She rose from her chair and was just on the point of turning to the doorwhen something checked her.
It was the clock of St. Michael's striking one.
One o'clock. The whole household would be in bed. He would have retired tohis room long ago--and to-morrow it would be too late.
She could never say that to him to-morrow; even now the impulse was dyingaway, the strength that would have broken convention and disregarded allthings was fading in her. She had been dreaming whilst she ought to havebeen doing, and the hour had passed and would never return.
She sat down again in the chair.
The moon in the cloudless sky outside cast a patch of silver on the floor,then it shewed a silver rim gradually increasing against the sky as itpushed its way through the night to peep in at Phyl. Leaning back in thechair limp and exhausted, with closed eyes, one might have fancied herdead or in a trance and the moon as if to make sure pushed on, framingitself now fully in the window space.
The clock of St. Michael's struck two, then it chimed the quarter afterand almost on the chime Phyl sat up. It was as though she had suddenlycome to a resolve. She clasped her hands together for a moment, then sherose, gathered up the letters and put them away, all except one which sheheld in her hand as though to give her courage for what she was about todo. She carefully extinguished the lamp and then led by the moonlight cameout on to the piazza.
Charleston was asleep under the moon; the air was filled with the scent ofnight jessamine and the faint fragrance of foliage, and scarcely a soundcame from all the sleeping city beyond the garden walls and the sea beyondthe city.
As she stood with one hand on the piazza rail, suddenly, far away butshrill, came the crowing of a cock.
She shivered as though the sound were a menace, then rigidly gliding likea ghost escaped from the grave and warned by the cockcrow that the hour ofreturn was near, she came along the piazza, mounted the stair to the nextfloor and came along the upper piazza to the window of Richard Pinckney'sbedroom.
The window was open and, pushing the curtains aside, she went in.
CHAPTER IX
Richard Pinckney went to his room at eleven that night. He rarely retiredbefore twelve, but to-night he had packing to do as Jabez, his man, wasaway and he knew better than to trust Seth.
He packed his portmanteau and left it lying open in case he had forgottenanything that could be put in at the last moment. Then he packed a kit-bagand, having smoked a cigarette, went to bed.
But he did not fall asleep. As a rule he slept at once on lying down, butto-night he lay awake.
He was miserable; going away was death to him, but he was going.
First of all, because he had said that he was going. Secondly, because hew
anted to hit and hurt Phyl whom he loved, thirdly, because he wanted totorture himself, fourthly, because he loathed and hated Silas Grangerson,fifthly, because in his heart of hearts he knew what he was doing waswrong.
You never know really what is in a man till he is pinched by Love. Lovemay stun him with a blow or run a dagger into him without bringing hisworst qualities to light whilst a sly pinch will raise devils--all themiserable devils that march under the leadership of Pique.
If he had not loved Phyl the fact of her going off with Silas for a driveafter what had occurred on the night before would have hurt him. Lovingher it had maddened him.
He was not angry with her now, so he told himself--just disgusted.
Meanwhile he could not sleep. The faithful St. Michael's kept him wellaware of this fact. He lit a candle and tried to read, smoked a cigaretteand then, blowing the candle out, tried to sleep. But insomnia had himfairly in her grip; to-night there was no escape from her and he laywhilst the moon, creeping through the sky, cast her light on the piazzaoutside.
St. Michael's chimed the quarter after two and sleep, long absent, wascoming at last when, suddenly, the sound of a light footstep on the piazzadrove her leagues away.
Then outside in the full moonlight he saw a figure. It was Phyl, fullydressed, standing with outstretched hands. Her eyes wide open, fixed, andsightless, told their tale. She was asleep.
She moved the curtains aside and entered the room, darkening the windowspace, passed across the room without the least sound, reached the bed,and knelt down beside it. Her hand was feeling for him, it touched hisneck, he raised his head slightly from the pillow and her arm, glidinglike a snake round his neck drew his head towards her; then her lips,blindly seeking, found his and clung to them for a moment.
Nothing could be more ghostly, more terrible, and yet more lovely thanthat kiss, the kiss of a spirit, the embrace of a soul rising from theprofound abysm of sleep to find its mate.
Then her lips withdrew and he lay praying to God, as few men have everprayed, that she might not wake.
He felt the arm withdrawing from around his neck, she rose, wavered for amoment, and then passed away towards the window. The lace curtains partedas though drawn aside, closed again, and she was gone.
He left his bed and came out on the piazza. Craning over he caught aglimpse of her returning along the lower piazza and vanishing.
Coming back to his room he saw something lying on the floor by his bed; itwas a letter; he struck a match, lit the candle and picked the letter up.It was just a folded piece of paper, it had been sealed, but the seal wasbroken, and sitting down on the side of the bed he spread it open, but hishands were shaking so that he had to rest it on his knee.
It was not from Phyl. That letter had been written many, many years ago,the ink was faded and the handwriting of another day.
He read it.
"Not to-night. I have to go to the Calhouns. It is just as well for I havea dread of people suspecting if we meet too often....
"Sometimes I feel as if I were deceiving him and everybody. I am, and Idon't care. Oh, my darling! my darling! my darling! If the whole worldwere against you I would love you all the more. I will love you all mylife, and I will love you when I am dead."
It was the letter of Juliet to her lover.
He turned it over and looked at the seal with the little dove upon it. Heknew of Juliet's letters, and he knew at once that this was one of them,and he guessed vaguely that she had been reading it when sleep overtookher and that it had formed part of the inspiration that led her to him.But the whole truth he would never know.
* * * * *
A blazing red Cardinal was singing in the magnolia tree by the gate,butterflies were chasing one another above the flowers; it was seveno'clock and the blue, lazy, lovely morning was unfolding like a flower tothe sea wind.
Richard Pinckney was standing in the piazza before his bedroom windowlooking down into the garden.
To him suddenly appeared Seth.
"If you please, sah," said Seth, "Rachel tole me tell yo' de train forN'York--"
"Damn New York," said Pinckney. "Get out."
Seth vanished, grinning, and he returned to his contemplation of thegarden.
She must never know.--In the years to come, perhaps, he might tell her--In the years to come--
He was turning away when a step on the piazza below made him come to therail again and lean over. It was Phyl. She vanished and then reappearedagain, leaving the lower piazza and coming right out into the garden. Hewaited till the sun had caught her in both hands, holding her against thebackground of the cherokee roses, then he called to her:
"Phyl!"
She started, turned, and looked up.
THE END
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