XIII
It was ten o'clock when Joan stood once more in the old, familiarbedroom in which she had slept all through her childhood andadolescence.
Nothing had been altered since the night from which she dated thebeginning of her life. Her books were in the same places. Letters fromher school friends were in the same neat pile on her desk. The thingsthat she had been obliged to leave on her dressing-table had not beentouched. A framed photograph of her mother, with her hands placed inthe incredible way that is so dear to the photographer's heart, stillhung crooked over a colonial chest of drawers. Her blue and white bathwrap was in its place over the back of a chair, with her slippersbeneath it.
She opened the door of the hospitable closet. There were all theclothes and shoes and hats that she had left. She drew out a drawer inthe chest. Nothing had been disturbed.... It was uncanny. She seemed tohave been away for years. And yet, as she looked about and got thefamiliar scent of the funny little lavender sachets made by Mrs. Nye,she found it hard to believe that Marty and Gilbert Palgrave, the housein New York, all the kaleidoscope of Crystal rooms and restaurants, allthe murmur of voices and music and traffic were not the elusivememories of last night's dream. But for the longing for Marty thatamounted to an absorbing, ever-present homesickness, it was difficultto accept the fact that she was not still the same early-to-bed,early-to-rise country girl, kicking against the pricks, rebellingagainst the humdrum daily routine, spoiling to try her wings.
"Dear old room," she whispered, suddenly stretching out her arms to it."My dear old room. I didn't think I'd miss you a little bit. But Ihave. I didn't think I should be glad to get back to you. But I am.What are you doing to me to make me feel a tiny pain in my heart?You're crowding all the things I did here and all the things I thoughtabout like a thousand white pigeons round my head. All my impatientsighs, and big ambitions, and silly young hopes and fears are coming tomeet me and make me want to laugh and cry. But it isn't the same methat you see; it isn't. You haven't changed, dear old room, but I have.I'm different. I'm older. I'm not a kid any more. I'm grown up. Oh, mydear, dear old room, be kind to me, be gentle with me. I haven't playedthe game since I went away or been honest. I've been thoughtless,selfish and untamed. I've done all the wrong things. I've attracted allthe wrong people. I've sent Marty away, Marty--my knight--and I wanthim back. I want to make up to him bigly, bigly for what I ought tohave done. Be kind to me, be kind to me."
And she closed her arms as if in an embrace and put her head down asthough on the warm breast of an old friend and the good tears ran downher cheeks.
All the windows were open. The air was warm and scented. There was nosound. The silent voices of the stars sang their nightly anthem. Theearth was white with magic moonshine. Joan looked out. The old creeperdown which she had climbed to go to Martin that night which seemed sofar away was all in leaf. With what exhilaration she had dropped herbag out. Had ever a girl been so utterly careless of consequences thenas she? How wonderfully and splendidly Martinish Martin had been whenshe plunged in upon him, and how jolly and homelike the hall of hishouse--her house--had seemed to be. To-morrow she would explore it alland show it off to her family. To-morrow.... Yes, but to-night? Shouldshe allow herself to be carried away by a sudden longing to follow herflying footsteps through the woods, pretend that Martin was waiting forher and take a look at the outside of the house alone? Why not? No oneneed know, and she had a sort of aching to see the place again that wasso essentially a part of Martin. Martin--Martin--he obsessed her, bodyand brain. If only she could find Martin.
With hasty fingers she struggled with the intricate hooks of herevening frock. Out of it finally, and slipping off her silk stockingsand thin shoes she went quickly to the big clothes closet, chose ashort country skirt, a pair of golf stockings, thick shoes and atam-o'-shanter, made for the drawer in which were her sport shirts andsweaters and before the old round-faced clock on the mantelpiece couldrecover from his astonishment became once more the Joan-all-alone forwhom he had ticked away the hours. Then to the window, and hand overhand down the creeper again and away across the sleeping garden to thewoods.
The fairies were out. Their laughter was blown to her like thistledown.But she was a woman now and only Martin called her--Martin who hadmarried her for love but was not her husband yet. Oh, where was Martin?
And as she went quickly along the winding path through the trees themoon dropped pools of light in her way, the scrub oaks threw out theirarms to hold her back and hosts of little shadows seemed to run out tocatch at her frock. But on went Joan, just to get a sight of the housethat was Martin's and hers and to cast her spirit forward to the timewhen he and she would live there as they had not lived in the city.
She marvelled and rejoiced at the change that had come overher,--gradually, underminingly,--a change, the seeds of which had beenthrown by Alice, watered by Palgrave and forced by the disappearance ofMartin, and brought to bloom in the silent hours of wakeful nights whenthe thought of all the diffidence and deference of Martin won hergratitude and respect. In the strong, frank and rather harsh light thathad been flung on her way of life it was Martin, Martin, who stood outclean and tender and lenient--Martin, who had developed from the Paulof the woods, the boy chum, her fellow adventurer, her sexless Knight,into the man who had won her love and whom she needed and ached for andlonged to find. She had been brought up with a round turn, foundherself face to face with the truth of things and, deaf to theincessant jangle of the Merry-go-round, had discovered that Martin wasnot merely the gallant and obliging boy, playing a game, trifling onthe edge of reality, but the man with the other blade of the penknifewho, like his prototype in the fairy tale, had the ordained right toher as she had to him.
And as she went on through the silvered trees, with a sort of dignity,her chin high, her eyes sparkling like stars, her mouth soft and sweet,it was to see the roof under which she would begin her married lifeagain, rightly, honestly and as a woman, crossing the bridge betweenthoughtlessness and responsibility with a true sense of itsmeaning,--not in cold blood.
She came out to the road, dry and white, bordered by coarse grasses andwild flowers all asleep, with their petals closed over their eyes,opened the gate that led into the long avenue, splashed through thepatches of moonlight on the driveway and came finally to the door underwhich she had stood that other time with dancing eyes and racing bloodand "Who cares?" ringing in her head.
There was no light to be seen in any of the front windows. The houseseemed to be fast asleep. How warm and friendly and unpretentious itlooked, and there was all about it the same sense of strength thatthere was about Martin. In which window had they stood in the dark,looking out on to a world that they were going to brave together? Wasit in the right wing? Yes. She remembered that tree whose branchesturned over like a waterfall and something that looked like a littleold woman in a shawl bending to pick up sticks but which was an oldstump covered with creepers.
She went round, her heart fluttering like a bird, all her femininitystirred at the thought of what this house must mean and shelter--anddrew up short with a quick intake of breath. A wide streak of yellowlight fell through open French windows across the veranda and on to thegrass, all dew-covered. Some one was there ... a woman's voice, notmerry, and with a break in it.... When the cat's away, the mice, in theshape of one of the servants...
Joan went on again. What a joke to peep in! She wouldn't frighten thegirl or walk in and ask questions. It was, as yet, too much Marty'shouse for that--and, after all, what harm was she doing by sitting upon such a lovely night? The only thing was it was Martin's very ownroom filled with his intimate things and with his father's messagewritten largely on a card over the fireplace--"We count it death tofalter, not to die."
But she went on, unsuspecting, her hand unconsciously clasped in thestern relentless hand of Fate, who never forgets to punish.... A shadowcrossed the yellow patch. There was the sound of a pipe being knockedout on one of the firedogs. A man was there, then. Shoul
d she take onelook, or go back? She would go back. It was none of her business,unfortunately. But she was drawn on and on, until she could see intothe long, low, masculine room.
A man was sitting on the arm of a sofa, a man with square shoulders anda deep chest, a man with his strong young face turned to the light,smiling--
"Marty," cried Joan. "Marty!" and went up and across the veranda andinto the room. "Why, Marty," and held out her hand, all glad andtremulous.
And Martin got on his feet and stood in amazement, wide-eyed, andsuddenly white.
"You here!" cried Joan. "I've been waiting and wondering, but I didn'tcall because I wanted you to come back for yourself and not for me.It's been a long week, Marty, and in every hour of it I've grown. Can'tyou see the change?"
And Martin looked at her, and his heart leaped, and the blood blazed inhis veins and he was about to go forward and catch her in his arms witha great cry...
"Oh, hello, Lady-bird; who'd have expected to see you!"
Joan wheeled to the left.
Lying full stretched on the settee, her settee, was a girl with herhands under her bobbed hair, a blue dress caught up under one knee, herbare arms agleam, her elfin face all white and a smile round her toored lips.
("White face and red lips and hair that came out of a bottle.")
Martin said something, inarticulately, and moved a chair forward. Thegirl spoke again, cheerily, in the spirit of good-fellowship,astonished a little, but too comfortable to move.
But a cold hand was laid on Joan's heart, and all that rang in herbrain were the words that Alice had used,--"white face and red lips andhair that came out of a bottle.... Don't YOU be the one to turn hisarmor into common broadcloth."
And for a moment she stood, looking from Marty to the girl and back toMarty, like one struck dumb, like one who draws up at the very lip of achasm.... And in that cruel and terrible minute her heart seemed tobreak and die. Marty, Marty in broadcloth, and she had put it in hishands. She had turned him away from her room and lost him. There's notone thing that any of us can do or say that doesn't react on some oneelse to hurt or bless.
With a little gasp, the sense of all this going home to her, Tootlesscrambled awkwardly off the settee, dropping a book and a handkerchief.This, then, this beautiful girl who belonged to a quarter of life ofwhich she had sometimes met the men but never the women, was Martin'swife--the wife of the man whom she loved to adoration.
"Why, then, you're--you're Mrs. Gray," she stammered, her impertinencegone, her hail-fellow-well-met manner blown like a bubble.
Catching sight of the message, "We count it death to falter not todie," Joan summoned her pride, put up her chin and gave a curiouslittle bow. "Forgive me," she said, "I'm trespassing," and not daringto look at Marty, turned and went out. She heard him call her name, sawhis sturdy shadow fall across the yellow patch, choked back a sob,started running, and stumbled away and away, with the blood from herheart bespattering the grasses and the wild flowers, and the fairieswhimpering at her heels,--and, at last, climbing back into the roomthat knew and loved and understood, threw herself down on its bosom ina great agony of grief.
"Be kind to me, old room, be kind to me. It's Joan-all-alone,--allalone."