holly had grown older within the last two months, although no one but aunt india realized it. it was as though her eighteenth birthday had been a sharp line of division between girlhood and womanhood. it was not that holly had altered either in appearance or actions; she was the same holly, gay or serious, tender or tyrannical, as the mood seized her; but the change was there, even if miss india couldn’t quite put her finger on it. perhaps she was a little more sedate when she was sedate, a little more thoughtful at all times. she read less than she used to, but that was probably because there were fewer moments when she was alone. she was a little more careful of her attire than she had been, but that was probably because there was more reason to look well. miss india felt the change rather than saw it.
[224]
i have said that no one save miss india realized it, but that is not wholly true. for holly herself realized it in a dim, disquieting way. the world in which she had spent her first eighteen years seemed, as she looked back at it, strangely removed from the present one. there had been the same sky and sunshine, the same breezes and flowers, the same pleasures and duties, and yet there had been a difference. it was as though a gauze curtain had been rolled away; things were more distinct, sensations more acute; the horizon was where it always had been, but now it seemed far more distant, giving space for so many details which had eluded her sight before. it was all rather confusing. at times it seemed to holly that she was much happier than she had been in that old world, and there were times when the contrary seemed true, times when she became oppressed with a feeling of sorrowfulness. at such moments her soft mouth would droop at the corners and her eyes grow moist; life seemed very tragic in some indefinable[225] way. and yet, all the while, she knew in her heart that this new world—this broader, vaster, clearer world—was the best; that this new life, in spite of its tragedy which she felt but could not see, was the real life. sorrow bit sharper, joy was more intense, living held a new, fierce zest. not that she spent much time in introspection, or worried her head with over-much reasoning, but all this she felt confusedly as one groping in a dark room feels unfamiliar objects without knowing what they may be or why they are there. but holly’s groping was not for long. the door of understanding opened very suddenly, and the light of knowledge flooded in upon her.
january was a fortnight old and winter held sway. the banana-trees drooped blackened and shrivelled, the rose-beds were littered with crumpled leaves, and morning after morning a film of ice, no thicker than a sheet of paper, but still real ice, covered the water-pail on its shelf on the back porch. uncle ran groaned with rheumatism as he laid the morning fires,[226] and held his stiffened fingers to the blaze as the fat pine hissed and spluttered. to winthrop it was the veriest farce of a winter, but the other inhabitants of waynewood felt the cold keenly. aunt india kept to her room a great deal, and when she did appear down-stairs she seemed tinier than ever under the great gray shawl. her face wore a pinched and anxious expression, as though she were in constant fear of actually freezing to death.
“i don’t understand what has gotten into our winters,” she said one day at dinner, drawing her skirts forward so they would not be scorched by the fire which blazed furiously at her back. “they used to be at least temperate. now one might as well live in russia or nova zembla! phœbe, you forgot to put the butter on the hearth and it’s as hard as a rock. you’re getting more forgetful every day.”
it was in the middle of the month, one forenoon when the cold had moderated so that one could sit on the porch in the sunshine without a wrap and when the southerly[227] breeze held a faint, heart-stirring promise of spring—a promise speedily broken,—that winthrop came back to the house from an after-breakfast walk over the rutted clay road and found holly removing the greenery from the parlor walls and mantel. she had spread a sheet in the middle of the room and was tossing the dried and crackling holly and the gummy pine plumes onto it in a heap. as winthrop hung up his hat and looked in upon her she was standing on a chair and, somewhat red of face, was striving to reach the bunch of green leaves and red berries above the half-length portrait of her father.
“you’d better let me do that,” suggested winthrop, as he joined her.
“no,” answered holly, “i’m——going to——get it——there!”
down came the greenery with a shower of dried leaves and berries, and down jumped holly with a triumphant laugh.
“please move the chair over there,” she directed.
[228]
winthrop obeyed, and started to step up onto it, but holly objected.
“no, no, no,” she cried, anxiously. “i’m going to do it myself. it makes me feel about a foot high and terribly helpless to have folks reach things down for me.”
winthrop smiled and held out his hand while she climbed up.
“there,” said holly. “now i’m going to reach that if i—have to—stretch myself—out of—shape!” it was a long reach, but she finally accomplished it, laid hold of one of the stalks and gave a tug. the tug achieved the desired result, but it also threw holly off her balance. to save herself she made a wild clutch at winthrop’s shoulder, and as the chair tipped over she found herself against his breast, his arms about her and her feet dangling impotently in air. perhaps he held her there an instant longer than was absolutely necessary, and in that instant perhaps his heart beat a little faster than usual, his arms held her a little tighter than before, and his eyes darkened with some emotion not altogether[229] anxiety for her safety. then he placed her very gently on her feet and released her.
“you see,” he began with elaborate unconcern, “i told you——”
then he caught sight of her face and stopped. it was very white, and in the fleeting glimpse he had of her eyes they seemed vast and dark and terrified.
“it startled you!” he said, anxiously.
she stood motionless for a moment, her head bent, her arms hanging straight. then she turned and walked slowly toward the door.
“yes,” she said, in a low voice; “it——i feel——faint.”
very deliberately she climbed the stairs, passed along the hall, and entered her room. she closed the door behind her and walked, like one in a dream, to the window. for several minutes she stared unseeingly out into the sunlit world, her hands strained together at her breast and her heart fluttering chokingly. the door of understanding had opened and the sudden light bewildered her. but gradually things[230] took shape. with a little sound that was half gasp, half moan, she turned and fell to her knees at the foot of her bed, her tightly-clasped hands thrown out across the snowy quilt and her cheek pillowed on one arm. tears welled slowly from under her closed lids and seeped scorchingly through her sleeve.
“don’t let me, dear god,” she sobbed, miserably, “don’t let me! you don’t want me to be unhappy, do you? you know he’s a married man and a northerner! and i didn’t know, truly i didn’t know until just now! it would be wicked to love him, wouldn’t it? and you don’t want me to be wicked, do you? and you’ll take him away, dear god, where i won’t see him again, ever, ever again? you know i’m only just holly wayne and i need your help. you mustn’t let me love him! you mustn’t, you mustn’t....”
she knelt there a long time, feeling very miserable and very wicked,—wicked because in spite of her prayers, which had finally trailed off into mingled sobs and[231] murmurs, her thoughts flew back to winthrop and her heart throbbed with a strange, new gladness. oh, how terribly wicked she was! it seemed to her that she had lied to god! she had begged him to take winthrop away from her and yet her thoughts sought him every moment! she had only to close her own eyes to see his, deep and dark, looking down at her, and to read again their wonderful, fearsome message; to feel again the straining clasp of his arms about her and the hurried thud of his heart against her breast! she felt guilty and miserable and happy.
she wondered if god would hear her prayer and take him away from her. and suddenly she realized what that would mean. not to see him again—ever! no, no; she couldn’t stand that! god must help her to forget him, but he mustn’t take him away. after all, was it so horribly wicked to care for him as long as she never let him know? surely no one would suffer[232] save herself? and she—well, she could suffer. it came to her, then, that perhaps in this new world of hers it was a woman’s lot to suffer.
her thoughts flew to her mother. she wondered if such a thing had ever happened to her. what would she have done had she been in holly’s place? holly’s tears came creeping back again; she wanted her mother very much just then....
as she sat at the open window, the faint and measured tramp of steps along the porch reached her. it was winthrop, she knew. and at the very thought her heart gave a quick throb that was at once a joy and a pain. oh, why couldn’t people be just happy in such a beautiful world? why need there be disappointments, and heartaches? if only she could go to him and explain it all! he would take her hand and look down at her with that smiling gravity of his, and she would say quite fearlessly: “i love you very dearly. i can’t help it. it isn’t my fault, nor yours.[233] but you must make it easy for me, dear. you must go away now, but not for ever; i couldn’t stand that. sometimes you must come back and see me. and when you are away you will know that i love you more than anything in the world, and i will know that you love me. of course, we must never speak again of our love, for that would be wicked. and you wouldn’t want me to be wicked. we will be such good, good friends always. good-bye.”
you see, it never occurred to her that winthrop’s straining arms, his quickening heart-throbs, and the words of his eyes, might be only the manifestation of a quite temporal passion. she judged him by herself, and all loves by that which her father and mother had borne for each other. there were still things in this new world of hers which her eyes had not discerned.
she wondered if winthrop had understood her emotion after he had released her from his arms. for an instant, she hoped that he had. then she clasped her hands closely to her burning cheeks and[234] thought that if he had she would never have the courage to face him again! she hoped and prayed that he had not guessed.
suddenly, regretfully for the pain she must cause him, she recollected julian. she could never marry him now. she would never, never marry anyone. she would be an old maid, like aunt india. the prospect seemed rather pleasing than otherwise. with such a precious love in her heart she could never be quite lonely, no matter if she lived to be very, very old! she wondered if aunt india had ever loved. and just then phœbe’s voice called her from below and she went to the door and answered. she bathed her hot cheeks and wet eyes in the chill water, and with a long look about the big square room, which seemed now to have taken on the sacredness of a temple of confession, she went down-stairs.
winthrop had not guessed. she knew that at once when she saw him. he was eagerly anxious about her, and blamed himself for her fright.
[235]
“i ought never to have let you try such foolishness,” he said, savagely. “you might have hurt yourself badly.”
“oh,” laughed holly, “but you were there to catch me!”
there was a caressing note in her voice that thrilled him with longing to live over again that brief moment in the parlor. but he only answered, and awkwardly enough, since his nerves were taut: “then please see that i’m there before you try it again.”
they sat down at table with miss india, to whom by tacit consent no mention was made of the incident, and chattered gayly of all things save the one which was crying at their lips to be spoken. and holly kept her secret well.
