after luncheon the company broke up. the rev. needham announced, just a little stiffly (for he felt the upsetting gaze of his sister-in-law) that it was customary at beachcrest to spend a quiet hour, at this point of the day's span, napping. he wanted to create an easy home atmosphere, and the most effective way seemed to be to impress outsiders with the fact that everything was really running along just as though none but the immediate family was present.
miss whitcom yawned at once. "good gracious!" she exclaimed. "i'm horribly sleepy. never would have dreamed what was the matter with me, alfred, if you hadn't come to the rescue. i am grateful!"
and then—and then the rev. needham did a tremendous, a revolutionary, a gigantic and unforgettable thing. he simply overwhelmed himself and everybody else by making an almost low bow!
mrs. needham uttered a tiny gasp—she really couldn't help it. what had gotten into alfred? then she laughed, a little too shrilly, as by way of heralding to all the point the glorious, glad tidings that there was, at last, a genuine, wholesome, jolly home atmosphere established.
[pg 168]
yes, the bow was inspired. there was no other way of looking at it. the bow was an inspired bow.
and what had come over the rev. needham was this: he had suddenly, in a sort of buoyant flare, determined that marjory's manner would have to be played up to! it was simply ridiculous—scandalous—to allow himself to be disturbed and even secretly harassed by his wife's own sister. yes, it was little short of a scandal! and now, rather tardily, it may be admitted, the rev. needham had attained salvation. it was simply to make a low bow. how clever—and how exquisitely subtle! he laughed aloud with the rest. his feet were squarely on the ground, after all. of course they were. and splendidly, magnificently he defied the prickly feeling to come again into his heels!
the rev. needham was, in truth, privately so captivated with this curious and unforeseen twist in his fortunes that he forgot all about his own customary fatigue: forgot that this was the hour of quiet at beachcrest—rendered so by immemorial precedent. he swaggered a little, without, of course, quite losing the ministerial poise; and spoke up, as his wife afterward phrased it, "real brisk and hearty." cigars were passed to barry and o'donnell. the rev. needham bit into one himself. it is altogether possible he might, under the influence of this new heroic emotion, have distributed cigarettes, had there been anything so devilish on the premises.
as the box went blithely back on to the mantel, miss[pg 169] whitcom, who was greatly enjoying what she perfectly fathomed, perceived an irresistible obligation to suggest that he had gone only half way around. the rev. needham looked perhaps just a shade startled. could he bow again? and if not, how else was her manner to be played up to? had he already struck a snag? obviously it would be going a little too far to take her at her word and offer her a cigar.
"one wants to be sociable, you know," she said, her eyes sparkling.
"i know of a lady poet in the east who smokes cigars," volunteered o'donnell.
he spoke quite easily, as though for miss whitcom's special benefit, and to convey the impression that he had quite grown accustomed or reconciled to such dainty feminine indulgence. indeed, he looked at her with shy sprightliness.
"oh, yes," she replied, "and, if you remember, a lady novelist started the custom."
he didn't remember, but he chuckled. and she went on: "as a matter of fact, and just amongst ourselves, why shouldn't women smoke if they want to? and why shouldn't they want to? isn't it perfectly natural they should? i'm not, strictly speaking, championing the habit, for it's expensive and rather silly. but if half the human race wants to turn itself into portable smoke stacks, then by all means let the other half follow suit. so you see, alfred, you'd really better let me have one. for you hear for yourself, mr. o'donnell knows of a poet who[pg 170] smokes. of course," she admitted, "i'm not a poet."
but o'donnell was certainly in a romantic mood today. he wouldn't let her admission stand. "yes, you are," he began, with an odd impulsiveness, adding in a quieter though quite as fervent tone: "—a kind of poet...."
they eyed each other steadily a moment, as they had done once or twice before, that day. it was surely another o'donnell than the o'donnell of long ago—the o'donnell, for instance, who had eased up at the finish and let her win the race. was she, also, in a way, another marjory? a marjory, after all, rather less insistent upon, or who had grown just a tiny bit weary of, doing things simply to be independent—simply for the joy of doing them gloriously and daringly alone?
when the gentlemen had repaired to the porch to smoke and to discuss, as is the custom at such times, matters too deep to be grasped by the feminine intellect, miss whitcom succeeded in confronting louise.
"now," she said, with a warm, inviting firmness which brought a flash of tears to the girl's eyes.
she laid an arm around louise's shoulders, and they stood thus together a few moments in the middle of the cottage living room. could the rev. needham have looked in upon this affecting picture, and could those small eager ears of his have partaken of[pg 171] the subsequent talk which passed between them, the cigar of confidence and authority would have dropped from his fingers, its brave spark dimmed forever. yes, he would have forgotten completely the brilliant bow which had seemed to smooth away all of life's snarls by giving him, marvellously, in an instant, a positive, almost nietzschean philosophy. but for the present he was safe.
"how could things have gone so far without your realizing?"
"i don't know."
"but you must know how you feel toward him!" louise shook her head miserably. "i thought i cared.... perhaps i still do."
"but aren't you sure?"
"i—i don't believe i know. i don't seem sure of anything."
"but, my dear child—"
"i thought i was sure."
"and all those letters—"
"yes, yes," cried louise tensely. "you see it was all letters, aunt marjie. and when i came suddenly to see him again...."
"oh, come, child, we don't fall in love with men's hats and the twist of their profiles. you must still love whatever it was you loved all those long months you were apart. isn't it reasonable?"
"i—i...." oh, what was the use of asking her to be reasonable? what has a heart full of ghosts to do with reason? and leslie....
[pg 172]
she felt like crying. she began looking upon herself as almost a person who has been somehow wronged. her emotion grew thicker. she drew shyly away.
aunt marjie, as she let her go from her, realizing that words just now would get them nowhere, was thinking that in the midst of a universe full of souls and wheeling planets, one poor heartache was like a grain of dust. well, perhaps she was a kind of poet. but in a moment the impersonal millions, both of souls and of stars, vanished away, and this girl's problem ascended to a position of tremendous importance, if not quite of majesty.
at length, after he had smoked his cigar, the rev. needham did retire to the couch of his wonted siesta, leaving the household, as he thought, pleasantly and profitably disposed.
of course, the fact that the host proposed to take a nap did not mean that all the others had to follow suit. it was just part of the device for making every one feel that nothing was being upset because of "company." it did not mean that o'donnell, for instance, would have to subject himself to the rather embarrassing alternative of curling up on the short living room sofa. miss whitcom and mr. o'donnell happily repaired to the rustic bower. hilda skipped off singing into the woods. mrs. needham—well, mrs. needham was still in the kitchen with eliza. the latter was stolidly eating her luncheon[pg 173] of left-overs on the very table to which louise and leslie had sat down at dawn. mrs. needham stood solemnly before eliza as she ate, her hands on her hips, her face growing flushed again, talking endlessly—about dinner. louise and lynndal barry were on the porch. lovers were so brazen, nowadays, they didn't mind at all if the partitions between their embraces and the outside world were mere mosquito gauze. the rev. needham, slyly recognizing this great truth, chuckled over it, in his new mood of sublime assurance, all the way upstairs. each step cracked, and all the way up he was telling himself contentedly: "a fine young man—one of god's own noblemen!" and as gentle slumber wafted his soul into a peace which, especially on a full stomach, so often passeth understanding, he whispered dreamily: "coming right into the family...."
thank god the western interests were forever safeguarded!
but meanwhile, out on the porch, the situation grew from moment to moment more poignant.
louise seemed suddenly to be sparring for time. she had decided—as well as her giddy little brain was capable, just now, of deciding anything at all—that the whole crux of the matter was her disappointment over the way lynndal had turned out.... but what aunt marjie had said about not loving his hat and the twist of his profile anyhow had rather[pg 174] upset her again. once she almost flung herself into his arms with a great, comfortable, forgiving, beseeching, surrendering cry. what a haven his arms might seem! but something in her heart, she imagined, warned her: "you cannot yet! dare you? remember—it would be irrevocable!"
time, time! there was obviously an issue to be faced. but with all the vital eloquence of desperation louise reasoned that bitterness deferred might somehow lose a degree of its sting. feeble logic, and logic not very profound; but she was scarcely in a frame of mind to evolve, at the present moment, any logic more substantial. her problem was delicate, tenuous, like the sheen on the wings of a butterfly. her tragedy was a thing of shades and of shadows—a thing wellnigh ungraspable. but it was none the less real. oh, it was very real to her! in an orgy of the mañana spirit she abandoned herself to eventualities as they should develop. her fate—whatever it was going to prove—would rush on and overtake her; she would not go out to meet it half way. dared not.
"i'm afraid you'll think me not very cordial," she said desperately, "but i have a headache, lynndal, and i'm going to ask if you'd mind if i went up to my room for a little while...."
"oh," he cried, in real and honest distress, "i'm so sorry! why didn't you tell me before? perhaps the smoke has been annoying you?"
"oh, it's nothing," she answered, smiling in the[pg 175] wan way common to invalids for whom the end is in sight. "these headaches come on, quite suddenly sometimes. if i lie down for an hour, it will be gone, i think."
"i'm sorry, dear," he repeated, touching her elbow as she turned to leave him. the contact emboldened him and he slipped an arm round her waist and bent over her a little as he walked with her toward the door. "you shouldn't have tried to meet me this morning, dear. it was too much."
"i wanted to," she murmured huskily.
"will you come out again later?" he pleaded, content, under the circumstances, that she should leave him now.
louise nodded and passed into the cottage.
"couldn't we take a little walk on the beach later, if your head is better? later on, when the sun isn't quite so hot?"
she turned and murmured: "yes." there was another impulse to throw herself into his arms; she longed to go to him and cry against his heart. but at the same moment she remembered leslie—how close he had held her in the morning, how they had kissed.... the impulse was stifled.
when she was gone from him, barry sat down again on the porch to finish his cigar. it was the cigar which the rev. needham had given him after luncheon. it was a good cigar, for the rev. needham knew what was what, despite his intense holiness.
[pg 176]
barry was one of those rare individuals who have never really loved before. curiously, the insatiable god eros had passed him largely by till now. but ah—the tardy fevers! they may be more virulent than those of timelier visitation.... his eye swept the curve of the white beach, ablaze with the mid-day sun. later they would be strolling there together, he and she. he would be walking out there beside this dear girl whose love had thrilled to the dull roots of his bachelordom. and then he would tell her how he adored her; would open the little box and slip the ring on her finger....
it was so wonderful, after dwelling in the desert all his life!
