Chapter XVIII
The days immediately following were like an armed truce.
Marcia watched Sylvia.
Sylvia watched Marcia.
Heath watched them both.
When, however, no further reference to the events of the past week wasmade, the tension slowly began to lessen, and life at the Howe Homesteadtook on again its customary aspect.
One agency in this return to normal was the physical improvement of theinvalid, who as a result of rest, fresh air, sleep, and good nursing nowbecame well enough to come down stairs and join the family group.
An additional, and by no means unimportant contributory factor, was thesudden onrush of fine weather.
Never had there been such a spring--at least never within the memory ofthe owner of the house on the Point. The soft breath of the south wind;the radiance of the sunshine; the gentle lapping of the waves on thespangled shore; the stillness; the vivid beauty of the ocean's changingcolors--all these blended to make a world that caught the breath andsubordinated every mood save one of exuberant joy.
Against a heaven gentian blue, snowy gulls wheeled and dipped, andfar beyond them, miniature white sails cut the penciled indigo of thehorizon.
The old grey house with its fan-light and beaded doorway stood out incolonial simplicity from the background of sea and sky like a dim,silvered picture, every angle of it soft in relief against the splendorsthat flanked it.
Marcia sang at her work--sang not so much because there was peace in herheart as because the gladness about her forced her to forget her pain.
Sylvia sang, too, or rather whistled in a gay, boyish fashion and incompany with Prince Hal raced like a young colt up the beach.
Only a day or two more passed before it was possible to get StanleyHeath, warmly wrapped in rugs, out on the sheltered veranda where, likethe others, he reveled in the sunshine.
His cheeks bronzed, his eyes became clear and bright, laughtercurled his lips. If just around the corner the spectre of troubleloitered, its presence was not, apparently, able to put to flight hislightheartedness. Over and over again he declared that every hour spentin this lotus-eaters' country was worth a miser's fortune.
Sometimes when he lay motionless in the steamer-chair looking seawardbeneath the rim of his soft felt hat, or following the circling gullswith preoccupied gaze Marcia, peeping at him from the window wondered ofwhat he was thinking.
That the fancies which intrigued him were pleasant and that he enjoyedhis own company there could be no question.
No attitude he might have assumed could have been better calculated todispel awkwardness and force into the background the seriousness of thetwo women, whose interests were so inextricably entangled with his own,than the merry, bantering one he adopted when with them.
Even Marcia, who at first had avoided all tete-a-tetes, quivering withdread whenever she found herself alone with him, gradually, beneath thespell of his new self, gained sufficient confidence to perch hatless onthe piazza rail beside him in an unoccupied moment and spar with him,verbally.
For he was a brilliant talker--one who gave unexpected, original twiststo the conversation--twists that taxed one's power of repartee. Thechallenge to keep pace with his wit was to her like scouring a longdisused rapier and seeing it clash against the deft blade of a masterfencer.
Here indeed was a hitherto undreamed-of Stanley Heath, a man whosedangerous charms had multiplied a hundredfold and who, if he hadcaptivated her before now riveted her fetters with every word he spoke,every glance he gave her.
She struggled to escape from the snare closing in on her, then findingcombat useless, ceased to struggle and let herself drift with the tide.
After all, why not enjoy the present?
Soon, all too soon, its glamorous delights would be gone and she wouldbe back once more in the uneventful past which had satisfied her andkept her happy until Heath had crossed her path, bringing with him thebewildering adventures that had destroyed her tranquillity.
Would she ever find that former peace, she frequently asked herself.Would her world ever be the same after this magician who had touched itwith the spell of his enchantment had left it? For he would leave it. Atime must come, and soon now--when like a scene from a fairy play themystic lights would fade, the haunting music cease, the glitter of thewhole dreamlike pageant give place to reality.
It was too beautiful, too ephemeral an idyll to last.
In loving this stranger of whom she knew so little, she had set herheart upon a phantom that she knew must vanish. The future, grim withforeboding, was constantly drawing nearer.
In her path stood a presence that said: Thou shalt not!
There were, alas, but two ways of life--the way of right and the way ofwrong, and between them lay no neutral zone. This she acknowledged withher mind. But her rebel heart would play her false, flouting her puritancodes and defying the creeds that conscience dictated.
Meantime while she thus wrestled with the angel of her best self, Sylviaaccepted the situation with characteristic lightness. Her life in thisvast world and wide had been of short duration, but during its briefspan she had learned a surprising amount about the earth and the humanbeings that peopled it.
She knew more already about men than did Marcia--much more. Long agothey had ceased to be gods to her. She was accustomed to them andtheir ways, and was never at a loss to give back to each as good as hesent--frequently better.
Her sophistication in the present instance greatly relieved the strain.
She jested fearlessly with Heath, speaking a language with which he wasfamiliar and one that amused him no end.
Often he would sit watching her furtively, his glance moving from thegold of her hair to the blue of her eyes, the fine poise of her fairwhite throat, the slender lines of her girlish figure. Often, too,in such moments he would think of the possibilities that lay in theprodigal beauty she so heedlessly ignored.
That he took pleasure in being with her and treating her withhalf playful, half affectionate admiration was incontestable. Yetnotwithstanding this, his fondness was nicely restrained and neverslipped into familiarity or license.
It was the sort of delicately poised relation in which the girl wasthoroughly at home and with which she knew well how to cope.
Today Heath was taking his first walk and the two had strolled down tothe water's edge where deep in a conversation more serious than usualthey sat in the sun on the over-turned yellow dory.
To Marcia, watching from the porch, they appeared to be arguing--Sylviapleadingly, Heath with stern resistance.
The woman could not but speculate as to the subject that engrossed them.
Not that she was spying. She would have scorned to do that.
She had merely stepped outside to shake a duster and they had caughther eye. It seemed, too, that she had chosen an inopportune momentfor observation, for just at that instant Sylvia placed her handentreatingly on Heath's arm and though he continued to talk, he caughtand held it.
The fact that Sylvia neither evinced surprise, nor withdrew it forcedher to the disconcerting conclusion that the thing was no unusualhappening.
Marcia turned aside, jealousy clutching at her heart.
When, later in the day, the pair reentered the house Heath, with a fewpleasant words, caught up his overcoat and went out onto the steps tosmoke, while Sylvia hurried to her room.
Marcia, passing through the hall, could see her golden head bent overthe table as intent with pen and paper she dashed off page after page ofa closely written letter.
It was a pity the elder woman could not have read that letter, forhad she been able to, it would not only have astonished but also haveenlightened her and perhaps quieted the beating of her troubled heart.
It was a letter that astonished Sylvia herself. Nevertheless, much as itsurprised her, her amazement in no way approached that of young HoratioFuller when he read it.
So completely did it scatter to the winds of heaven every other thoughth
is youthful head contained that he posted two important businessdocuments--one without a stamp, and the other without an address. Afterthat he decided he was unfit to cope with commercial duties and pleadinga headache hastened home to his mother.
Now Horatio's mother, far from possessing the appearance of a tower ofstrength to which one might flee in time of trouble, was a woman ofcolorless, vaguely defined personality indicative of little guile andstill less determination. She listened well and gave the impression shecould listen, with her hands passively folded in her lap, forever ifnecessary. She never interrupted; never offered comment or advice; neverpromised anything; and yet when she said, as she invariably did, "I'lltalk with your father, dear," there was always infinite comfort in theobservation.
That was what she said today to Horatio Junior.
Accordingly that evening after Horatio Senior had dined, and dined well;after he had smoked a good cigar and with no small measure of pride inhis own skill put into place all the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle that haddefied his prowess the night before--his wife artfully slipping thembeneath his nose where he could not fail to find them--then and notuntil then did Mrs. Horatio take out the pink afghan she had been makingand while she knit two and purled two, she gently imparted to AltonCity's leading citizen the intelligence that his son, Horatio Junior,wished to go East; that he was in love; that, in short, he wished tomarry.
Up into the air like a whizzing rocket soared Horatio Senior!
He raged; he tramped the floor; he heaped on the head of the absentHoratio Junior every epithet of reproach his wrath could devise, thephrases driveling idiot and audacious puppy appearing to afford him thegreatest measure of relief. Continuing his harangue, he threatened todisinherit his son; he smoked four cigarettes in succession; he tippedover the Boston fern. The rest of the things Horatio Senior said andwhat he did would not only be too gross to write down in the Chroniclesof the Kings of Judah, but also would be improper to record here.
In the meantime, Mrs. Horatio knitted on.
At last when breathless and panting Horatio Senior, like an alarmclock ran down and sank exhausted into his chair, Mrs. Horatio beganthe second row of knit two, purl two and ventured the irrefutableobservation that after all Horatio Junior was their only child.
As this could not be denied, it passed without challenge and gainingconfidence to venture farther, she presently added, quite casually thata wife was a steadying influence in a young man's career.
Horatio Senior vouchsafed no reply. Perhaps he had no breath left todemur.
At any rate his wife, considering silence a favorable symptom, followedup her previous comments with the declaration that Sylvia Hayden was anice little thing. This drew fire.
Horatio Senior sputtered something about "nothing but a pennilessschool-teacher--a nobody."
Very deliberately then Mrs. Horatio began the fourth row of herknitting and as her needles clicked off the stitches, she murmuredpleasantly that if she remembered rightly this had been the veryobjection Horatio Senior's father had made to their own marriage.
At this Horatio Senior flushed scarlet and said promptly that fathersdid not know anything about choosing wives for their sons; that hismarriage had been ideal; that his Jennie had been the one wife in theworld for him; that time had proved it--even to his parents; that shewas the only person on earth who really understood him--which latterstatement unquestionably demonstrated that all that proceeded out of themouth of Horatio Senior was not vanity and vexation of spirit.
After this nothing was simpler than to complete the pink stripe anddiscuss just when Horatio Junior had better start East.
* * * * *
Had Sylvia dreamed when she licked the envelope's flap with her smallred tongue and smoothed it down with her pretty white finger she wasthus loosing Alton City's thunderbolts, she might, perhaps, havehesitated to send the letter she had penned and perhaps would not havestarted off so jauntily late that afternoon to post it.
As it was, she was ignorant of the future consequences of her act andwent skipping across the wee azure pools the tide had left behind asgaily as if she were not making history.
And not only did she go swinging off in this carefree fashion, buttoward six o'clock she telephoned she was at the Doanes and Henry andhis mother--the little old lady she had met on the train the day shearrived--wanted her to stay to supper. He would bring her home early inthe evening. There would be a moon--Marcia need not worry.
Marcia had not thought of worrying until that minute, but now, in spiteof knowing Sylvia was safe and in good hands she began, paradoxicallyenough, to worry madly.
Her heart would palpitate, her hand tremble while she spread the clothand prepared the supper; and when she could not put off the dreadedand yet anticipated moment any longer, timidly as a girl she summonedStanley Heath to the small, round table.
"Sylvia isn't coming," she explained, all blushes. "She telephoned shewas going to stay over in town."
They seated themselves.
It was the first time they had ever been alone at a meal and the noveltyof finding themselves opposite one another awed them into silence.
"Would you--do you care for cheese souffle?" stammered Marcia.
"Thank you."
"Perhaps you don't like cheese."
"I do--very much."
"I hope it is done."
"It is perfect."
"It's hard to get it out of the oven at the right moment. Sometimes itfalls."
"This one hasn't," beamed Stanley.
"I don't know. Perhaps I might have left it in a second or two longer."
"It's wonderful!"
"I'm glad you like it. Rolls?"
"Rather! My, but you are a marvelous cook."
"Oh, not really. You're hungry--that's all. Things taste good when youare."
"It isn't that. Everything you put your hand to is well done."
"Nonsense!"
"It isn't nonsense and you know it. You're a marvelous person, Marcia."
"There is nothing marvelous about me."
"There is--your eyes, for one thing. Don't drop them, dear. I want tolook at them."
"You are talking foolishness."
"Every man talks foolishness once in his life, I suppose. Perhaps I amtalking it tonight because our time together is so short. I am leavinghere tomorrow morning."
"Stanley!"
Across the table he caught her hand.
"I am well now and have no further excuse for imposing on yourhospitality."
"As if it were imposing!"
"It is. I have accepted every manner of kindness from you--"
"Don't call it that," she interrupted.
"What else can I call it? I was a stranger and you took me in. It wassweet of you--especially when you knew nothing about me. Now the timehas come for me to go. Tomorrow morning I am giving myself up to theWilton sheriff."
"Oh, no--no!"
"But you said you wanted me to. It is the only square thing to do, isn'tit?"
She made no answer.
He rose and came to her side, slipping an arm about her.
"Marcia. Dearest! I am doing what you wish, am I not?"
"I cannot bear it." The words were sharp with pain.
"You wanted me to go through with it."
She covered her face and he felt a shudder pass over her.
"Yes. But that was then," she whispered.
At the words, he drew her to her feet and into his arms.
"Marcia, beloved! Oh, my dear one, do I need to tell you I loveyou--love you with all my heart--my soul--all that is in me? You knowit--know that every moment we have been together has been heaven.Tell me you love me, dear--for you do love me. Don't deny it--nottonight--our last night together. Say that you love me."
"You--know," she faltered, her arms creeping about his neck.
He kissed her then--her hair, her eyes, her neck, her lips--long,burning kisses that left her quivering beneath the rush of the
m.
Their passion brought her to herself and she drew away.
"What is it, dear?" he asked.
"We can't. We must not. I had forgotten."
"Forgotten?"
"Something stands between us--we have no right. Forgive me."
"But my dear--"
"We have no right," she repeated.
"You are thinking of the past," he challenged. "Marcia, the past isdead. It is the present only in which we live--the present--just ustwo--who love."
"We must not love."
"But we do, sweetheart," was his triumphant cry. "We do!"
"We must forget."
"Can you forget?" he reproached.
"I--I--can try."
"Ah, your tongue is too honest, Marcia. You cannot forget. Neither canI. Our pledge is given. We belong to one another. I shall not surrenderwhat is mine--never."
"Tomorrow--"
"Let us not talk of tomorrow."
"We must. We shall be parted then."
"Only for a little while. I shall come back to you. Our love will hold.Absence, distance, nothing can part us--not really."
"No."
"Then tell me you love me so I may leave knowing the truth from your ownsweet lips."
"I love you, Stanley--God help me!"
"Ah, now I can go! It will not be for long."
"It must be for forever, dear heart. You must not come back. Tonightmust be--the end."
"Marcia!"
"Tonight must be the end," she repeated, turning away.
"You mean you cannot face tomorrow--the disgrace--"
"I mean tonight must be the end," she reiterated.
Through narrowed lids, he looked at her, scanning her averted face.
Then she heard him laugh bitterly, discordantly.
"So we have come to the Great Divide, have we?" he said. "I have,apparently, expected too much of you. I might have known it would be so.All women are alike. They desert a man when he needs them most. Theiraffection has no toughness of fibre. It snaps under the first severestrain. The prospect of sharing my shame is more than you can bear."Again he laughed. "Well, tonight shall be the end--tonight--now. Don'tthink I blame you. It is not your fault. I merely rated you too high,Marcia--believed you a bigger woman than you are, that's all. I haveasked more than you were capable of giving. The mistake was mine--notyours."
He left her then.
Stunned by the torrent of his reproach, she stood motionless, watchingwhile, without a backward glance, he passed into the hall and up thestairs. His receding footsteps grew fainter.
Even after he was out of sight, she remained immovable, her frightenedeyes riveted on the doorway through which he had disappeared.
Prince Hal raised his head and sensing all was not well came uneasily toher side and, thrusting his nose into her inert hand, whined.
At his touch, something within her gave way. She swayed, caught at achair and shrank into it, her body shaking and her breath coming ingasping, hysterical sobs.
The clock ticked on, the surf broke in muffled undertone, the lightfaded; the candles burned lower, flickered and overflowed the old pewtercandle sticks; and still she sat there, her tearless, dilated eyes fixedstraight before her and the setter crouching unnoticed at her feet.