anne had taken off her costume and slipped into a negligée to do her packing comfortably, and then decided she had better bid good-by to joe first. bidding good-by was not an obligation between them, but she had to get the key of his trunk—it was going back to new york with hers—and her heart in its new warmth yearned to him, her only relation. she wanted to tell him her great secret, see an answering joy leap into his face, for he thought more of bassett than anybody, and he’d be so surprised to hear that anne, her charms held at a low valuation, had won such a prize.
her room was the first on the left side of the gallery, joe’s next to sybil’s on the land front of the house. she passed the long line of closed doors, voices coming from behind mrs. cornell’s, [pg 79]and reaching joe’s, knocked. a “come in,” uninvitingly loud and harsh, answered her and she entered. joe was sitting in a low armchair, bent forward, his hands holding a cane with which he was tapping on the floor. the bright square of the window was behind him, framing rosy sky and the green shore-line. he looked up to see who it was; then, without greeting or comment, drooped his head and went on lightly striking the cane on the carpet as if he were hammering in a nail and it required all his attention. anne felt dashed, his manner might have been the same to an intruding stranger. she asked about the key, and he nodded to the bureau where it lay. the trunk was packed and locked? to that he gave an assenting grunt, then raised his head and looked at her—what have you come here for, the look said.
it was not a reception to encourage confidences and she stood uncomfortably regarding him, trying to find something to say that would dispel his somber ill humor.
“you’re all ready? where’s your luggage?”
[pg 80]
“down by the door. is there anything else you want to know?”
“i don’t want to know, i was thinking of you. you’re always late, and it’s different here with only one way to get ashore and gabriel never willing to wait.”
he made no answer, continuing his play with the cane. she knew that something was wrong and sat down on the arm of a chair, uneasy, wondering what it was:
“i’m glad you’ve managed this holiday. and it’s so jolly having jimmy travers, he’s such a sport. you’ll meet him to-night at bangor. at the algonquin inn—wasn’t that the name of it?”
“um.”
“i want to be sure because if any important mail should come for you i could send it there to meet you on your way back. algonquin inn—i’ll remember that. then off to-morrow morning—it’ll be lovely in the woods now.”
“any place would be lovely after this beastly hole.”
[pg 81]
“beastly hole! i thought you liked it!”
“did you? take another guess.”
“you expected to like it. you wanted to come.”
he made no answer, but slanting his body sidewise with an air of ostentatious endurance, took out his watch and looked at it. she ignored the hint—you couldn’t be sensitive with joe—and leaning toward him asked:
“what’s the matter, joe?”
“matter—with what?”
“you! has anything happened?”
“oh, no, nothing’s happened.” his words were mincingly soft. “what could happen with such a charming lot of people and miss saunders playing the star rôle in the performance and out.”
it was sybil then—he’d been working himself into a bad temper over her treatment of him. anne had thought it odd he had not mentioned it before:
“you’re angry with sybil, and i don’t think she has been very nice to you. i’ve noticed it, [pg 82]especially the last three days and this afternoon when we were sitting out there on the rock i tried to make her tell me why.”
he raised his head; the profile sharply defined against the window showed a working muscle in the cheek: “and did she tell you?”
“no, she didn’t seem to want to talk about it. she changed the subject.”
“how considerate!”
“there’s no sense getting annoyed about it because i don’t think she has any reason. you have to make excuses for her. she’s gone through this awful experience and her nerves are all wracked to pieces. you have to be patient and take her as a sort of afflicted person—”
he dashed the cane down and jumped to his feet in a volcanic explosion of rage:
“i don’t take her that way. i take her for what she is, a damned lying hypocrite.”
“joe!” she was amazed, not so much at the words, as at the suddenness of the outburst and the contorted passion of his face.
[pg 83]
“she thinks she can treat me any way she wants and get away with it. well, she’ll find her mistake, she’s taken the wrong turning this time. she takes me for a yellow dog she can kick whenever she feels like it. but i got teeth, i can bite. patient—be patient—god, i’d like to wring her neck, the damned——.”
he used an epithet that brought anne to her feet, breathing battle: “don’t dare to say that of my friend, joe tracy.”
he stood in front of her, hump-shouldered, with outthrust jaw, brows drawn low over eyes gleaming like a cat’s. she had never seen him look like that; he seemed a stranger, a horrible stranger, and she drew away, aghast at the revelation of a being so sinisterly unfamiliar. her look brought him back to self-control. he jerked his head up, ran a hand over his hair, and turned away to the window. standing there he said:
“well, i take that back. i didn’t mean to say it. but she’s made me mad; i think she’d make anybody.”
[pg 84]
the tone, surly still, had a placating quality; it was as near an apology as joe could ever come. she felt immeasurably relieved for he had frightened her. to see the family cat, whose vagaries of temperament she knew by heart, suddenly transformed into a tiger, had given her a shock. she accepted his amends without comment, but she could not resist a sisterly admonition:
“if you’d only stop getting mad over small things you’d find life so much easier.”
he laughed:
“good advice from little sister! it doesn’t cost anything and it’s the correct ingenue pose.”
he turned from the window smiling, joe at his most amiable. if he had met her this way she would have poured out her secret. but her high mood had fallen and besides he wanted her to go—he said he had a letter to write yet. lounging toward her he put his hands on her shoulders, gave her a light kiss on the cheek and pushed her toward the door.
on her way back along the gallery she recalled [pg 85]his face in that moment of rage with troubled question. she wondered if there was more disturbing him than she knew—it was an extraordinary exhibition of anger for such a cause. also she had not felt sure that his change of mood was genuine, his laugh had rung false, and when he had laid his hands on her shoulders she had felt their coldness through the thin stuff of her negligée. she heaved a sigh of relief at the thought that he was going. in his present mood there was no knowing what clashes there might be, and it was the last evening, and there would be a full moon, and she and bassett would walk like lovers under its magic light.
when her door had closed, the gallery and living-room became as quiet as though the house were unoccupied. sybil, approaching it, heard no sound of voices, a fact that reassured her, for the long day had tired her and she had no mind for talk. she was coming in by the balcony when she saw flora stokes sitting there reading and deflected her course toward the path that skirted [pg 86]the building’s front. if flora noticed her she made no sign, her eyes glued to her book, and sybil, stepping softly, for she dreaded the woman’s resentful glances, passed along to the entrance of the living-room. the place was deserted and she stopped on the threshold for a last look at the sky’s fading splendors.
across the depths of the room the door into the hall opened, but so gently that she did not hear it. stokes made this noiseless entrance in the hope that she might be there, and now, seeing his hope fulfilled, closed the door as carefully, standing against it watching her.
if the conventional garb of the street was not as becoming to his darkly byronic style as the trappings of the duke, he was still unusually handsome. a figure of distinction in its lean grace, with proud hawk features and the deep-set melancholy eyes that the matinée girl loves. even his pallor had charm in their opinion, adding to his romantic suggestion. gull island sun and breezes had left no trace upon it; his face against [pg 87]the background of the door was a yellowish white.
seeing that she did not turn he pronounced her name. at that she wheeled, lightning-quick, and came forward from beneath the deep jut of the gallery assuming as unconcerned a manner as she could.
“lovely evening,” she said as she advanced. “it’s been hard to come in.”
“evidently from the length of time you stayed out there. i’ve been waiting for you.”
it was not a propitious beginning, especially as he still stood against the door as if intending to bar her exit.
“i’m going up-stairs to dress now.”
“there’s plenty of time. you can give me a few minutes. i’ve something i want to say to you.”
“oh, aleck!” she stopped with an air of weary expostulation. “don’t say anything more. don’t begin that dreadful subject. i’m sick of it, i loathe it and can’t you see it isn’t any use?”
he went on as if he hadn’t heard her:
[pg 88]
“i’ve been trying for days, ever since i came here. and you keep avoiding me, always having some one with you. now we’ll be going to-morrow, we may not have another chance, and i must see you and tell you”—he stopped and looked at the gallery. “did i hear a step up there?”
she had heard nothing and thought it odd that he should be so suddenly cautious. discretion had been the last quality he had heretofore shown.
“i have avoided you and i’m going to continue doing it. please move away from the door. it’s silly to stand in front of it for i can go round by the garden, but i’m tired and i don’t want to.”
he came forward, speaking as he advanced.
“this isn’t what you think. i’m done with that. you’ve made me understand, you’ve got it across, sybil. i’m not going to bother you any more with that subject you loathe and think so dreadful. but i can’t help loving you and wanting to help you.” she gave an exasperated gesture and made a move to pass him. as she did so, he said: “i’ve heard something of jim dallas.”
[pg 89]
she stopped as if all animating force had been stricken out of her, a “what?” expelled on a caught breath.
“just before i left town i met an actor who says he saw him.”
“are you telling me the truth?”
“why should i lie? what do i gain by it? i swore the fellow to secrecy and came up here to tell you and i’ve been trying——”
she broke in: “was he sure? where was it?”
the change in her manner would have crushed the hope in any man. shunning him like a leper, she now drew close and laid her hand on his arm.
“i can’t tell you here. it’s too dangerous, too many people coming and going.”
“it was jim?”
“it was. it’s quite a story, more than just seeing him. but we’ve got to get somewhere away from all these damned doors——”
one of them opened—that into the hall behind them. they heard it and wheeled round, faces sharp-set in defensive interrogation. it was [pg 90]flora stokes. she rested on the threshold looking at them, and stokes, his senses more alert than the girl’s, withdrew his arm from her clasp.
“oh, flora,” he said, his voice supremely light and easy. “were you looking for me?”
mrs. stokes said no, she had come to put her book back. she walked slowly to a table and placed her book on the corner. the room was very still as she did this. stokes, his hands deep in his pockets, moved his head, following her progress as if it roused his curiosity. the girl stood without a sound, the scene passing under her eyes with a mirage-like unreality.
“it seems i’ve intruded,” said mrs. stokes, each syllable meticulously clear and precise. “but if you want to be alone i should think you’d have chosen another place.”
“having chosen this is a pretty good proof we didn’t want to be alone,” retorted her husband.
she gave a light jeering sound of disbelief and walked to the entrance. on the sill she turned and looked at them with smoldering eyes:
[pg 91]
“don’t be afraid i’ll stay. i’m going for a walk on the front of the island. that’s as far away as i can get; i’d go farther if i could.”
she passed out of the door and stokes turned to the girl:
“there—that’s what i was afraid of. some of the rest of them may come in at any minute. we’ve got to get out of here, some place outside.”
“the point—the summer-house. i’ll go down there now—you follow me.”
she ran to the entrance, he at her heels. walking leisurely up the path to the summer-house was shine. she threw out her hands with a distracted gesture and struck a foot on the floor in a frantic stamp. stokes smothered an oath. “tell me here,” she implored, but he answered with an imperative shake of the head.
“the garden.” she was half-way across the room before he caught her up, and this time it was he who laid his hand on her arm:
“sybil, have some sense. you’ll get us in wrong every way. you don’t want any of these people [pg 92]to see us out there whispering together. that’s just the place they’ll go while they’re waiting round for supper. listen now, get a hold on yourself. jim’s safety is more important than your anxiety. that photographer chap’s just strolling round killing time; he’ll move on from there presently. go up to your room and wait. you can see the point from your window. if he’s gone by seven, come down and go along to the summer-house. i’ll watch too and i’ll meet you there.”
she opened her lips for a last protest, then evidently seeing there was nothing else for it, gave out a groaning “all right” and left the room. he followed her, saw her mount the stairs, and walked out on the balcony. it was exquisitely still, the colors paling, the pines black and motionless as if painted on the orange sky. he could see the figure of his wife moving slowly toward the ocean bluffs. a newspaper lay on a table near him and he took it up, slumping down in his chair as one who relinquishes himself to a regained interest, but he did not read.
