it was nearly five o'clock when leslie and hilda emerged from the woods with their supply of roasting sticks. they had gone about their task in the most leisurely fashion, mutually animated by a curious half complacent acceptance of each other's presence. merely being together had become such a complete yet informal delight that neither of them stopped to analyse it at all. and yet, if their hands chanced to brush, or, as happened once when a bee threatened, she laid her hand a little clutchingly on his shoulder, the emotion quickened. they hadn't much to say to each other, although a good deal of talk, such as it was, passed between them. neither could remember afterward anything that was said. and all they had intrinsically to show for their afternoon was an armful of roasting sticks.
"where shall we keep them until it's time?" asked hilda, as they tramped through the sand and up to the screened porch.
he gazed dreamily off to sea.
"les?" she repeated, quaintly drawling.
"hm?"
"what shall we do with the sticks? leave them[pg 211] here? or do you want to take them down where the fire's going to be?"
"oh," he said at last, "i don't care." and he let himself down slowly on to the steps. "i feel so dreamy i can hardly move. did you ever feel like that, hilda?"
"yes, many times," she replied, sitting down one step above him and clasping her knees. her canvas hat was tossed aside, and the hair on her forehead was a little damp. there ensued a long, drowsy silence. at length she said: "i hope we cut enough, les."
he was still gazing off across the sea, which the declining sun was making flash in a splendid and quite dazzling way. it was merely a warm, hypnotic stare, and he really saw nothing at all; yet he was faintly conscious of things—above all, he was conscious of a feeling of simple young happiness.
"les?"
"hm?"
"you do think we cut enough, don't you?"
"sure, i guess so."
"it would be so funny," she laughed, "if there didn't happen to be enough to go round and some had to just sit and watch the others eat!"
"most of them do that anyway, don't they?" he murmured. "i mean they sit there and watch you work like a slave, and then swallow everything that's poked in front of their mouths. i guess all roasts are alike."
[pg 212]
"well, anyhow, we won't feed any of the lazybones tonight, les. we'll eat our own! i'll feed you, and you feed me. will you?"
he glanced up at her and smiled. then he slid down a step and lay back, resting his head against the step on which she sat, a little to one side.
"you look quite different upside down," he volunteered.
"how, les?"
"oh—i don't know. your eyes look so funny!"
"yours do, too!"
he thrust a sun-browned arm over his eyes and crossed his legs. it was she who now gazed off over the blazing waves. not exactly a classic tableau. you would never mistake them for romeo and juliet. and yet our little ubiquitous friend eros viewed the picture not without a smouldering, an incipient satisfaction.
louise came out of the living room door on to the porch. she could see hilda's head and shoulders, and she crossed over to the screen door at the top of the flight. hilda looked round quickly.
"oh, hello, lou!"
louise nodded, and made motions of salutation with her lips. there was no sound, however. she cleared her throat—tried to smile.
leslie drew himself hurriedly into a more dignified posture. "hello," he smiled, rising a trifle uneasily.
"just see how many we got!" cried hilda, [pg 213]jumping up and gathering the roasting sticks in her arms.
louise stood there looking down through the screen door. "you certainly got enough!" she exclaimed, a little shrilly—the result of her trying so desperately to be perfectly natural.
"well," hilda went on, "you see i kept finding little trees so straight we simply couldn't pass them by. and leslie just kept cutting. see how sharp they are?"
leslie, as though availing himself of the invitation (regardless of its not having been exactly addressed to him) placed a finger on one of the smoothly whittled points and withdrew it with a small, oddly juvenile howl of mock distress. the wounded finger went into his mouth. leslie was certainly not at his ease.
suddenly hilda ran up close to her sister and asked, in a very low voice: "have you been crying?"
louise's heart jumped. "why, no," she replied.
"it must be the sun in your eyes," said hilda.
"yes, it must be." and she turned away from them and sat in the same chair her mother had occupied when she had demanded of alfred if he thought she might be growing old. louise rocked slowly, just as her mother had rocked. yet her thoughts rushed madly to and fro. there was a battle of ghosts in her heart.
aunt marjie came out breezily, accompanied by[pg 214] mr. o'donnell, who was about to take his departure. the parent needhams stood side by side in the cottage doorway, hospitably bowing, but seeming to realize, with a kind of fineness, that they should come no further, and that the very last rites must be performed by the lady for whose sake he had been asked.
mr. o'donnell extended a hand of farewell to louise, who rose.
"oh, are you going?" she asked.
"yes—simply have to. they'll decide at the elmbrook that i'm lost, strayed, or stolen and will have a search party out!"
"good-bye, mr. o'donnell," said hilda, prettily holding out her hand. she was deliciously unspoiled.
he held her hand a moment, looked from her over to leslie, then at the bunch of sharpened sticks. and he brazenly winked at miss whitcom, who, glancing discreetly in the direction of her elder niece, remarked that there was likely to be a gorgeous sunset.
o'donnell and leslie shook hands. "see you again tonight?" asked the boy politely.
"yes, indeed!" mrs. needham called out. "he's coming over to the roast."
"you'll have a devil—i mean, it's very dark in the woods," said leslie. he was quite horrified at the slip, and hurried on, expressing quick generosity by way of gaining cover—a generosity more [pg 215]generous, no doubt, than he had at first contemplated. "you'd better let me come and light you through."
o'donnell patted the lad's shoulder in a very kindly manner, just as he might pat an obliging bellhop in one of the hotels on his route, who volunteered to get him up for a five o'clock train.
"oh, no," he said. "don't you bother."
"no bother at all," replied leslie, suddenly seeming to grow quite enthusiastic over the idea of lighting mr. o'donnell through from crystalia. his eye encountered hilda's. it was finally agreed, and o'donnell departed, in the very best sort of spirits.
when he had disappeared, the rev. and mrs. needham strolled out on to the porch. the rev. needham was slowly gaining back his ruffled poise. he and o'donnell had been smoking some more of the good cigars, and marjory hadn't ventured anything so very revolutionary since the remark about not having time for church. he slipped an arm, just a tiny bit stiffly, about his wife's waist. he didn't exactly cuddle her; still, thus fortified, he looked across at his sister-in-law with an inner mild defiance.
"well, i must run along," said leslie, drawing a deep and very leisurely breath.
"do you have to go so soon?" hilda stepped down toward him.
he nodded, thrust his hands into his pockets, drew them out again, was painfully conscious that louise was sitting up there on the porch.
hilda came down another step and stood close to[pg 216] him. "it's awfully early, les." then a brilliant idea sent her unexpectedly scurrying up the steps and on to the porch. she whispered something in her mother's ear, upon which mrs. needham looked somewhat startled and shook her head. she and eliza had planned so carefully. leslie seemed almost like one of the family; but what if there shouldn't be enough?
hilda tossed it off gallantly. she tripped back down the steps and said she would go with leslie as far as the choke-cherry tree.
"good-bye," said leslie politely to the porch.
"good-bye, leslie," said the rev. and mrs. needham in unison.
and it never occurred to them as odd that their younger should be accompanying leslie as far as the choke-cherry tree. oh, the incredible blindness of parents! oh, what strangers one's children really are, after all! and yet, how could it be otherwise? quaint souls—perhaps they did not even remember, now lynndal had come, that it was to the choke-cherry tree their elder had been wont to go....
louise called out: "'bye, les." she was rocking more vigorously. her hands were clasped behind her head and her cheeks were flushed. there was a curious wild look in her eyes. aunt marjie thought her actually handsome just then.
at the choke-cherry tree leslie and hilda indulged in a very desultory leave-taking. yet their talk was[pg 217] utterly devoid of anything either poetic or romantic.
"you'll get your shoe all full of sand, les." he was scuffing it mechanically back and forth in the dust of the roadway.
"i don't care."
"i hate to have sand in my shoes."
but he laughed: "i don't know what it is not to."
then he patted the bark of the choke-cherry tree and ran his palm up and down it, as though he were a lumberman and knew all about trees. and he gazed up at the tiny ripening berries. suddenly he stopped patting the trunk and turned, leaning his back against it. he stood there, confused a little, tapping first one heel and then the other against a projecting root; for his exploring hand, as it chanced, had encountered a certain recently carved set of initials within a rude heart. all that was so long ago!
"what shall we do about the sticks?" asked hilda. "shall we have papa carry them down to the fire?"
"no, i'll carry them down. i'll come over and get them."
"but you're going to light mr. o'donnell through from crystalia," she reminded him—then waited breathlessly.
he didn't disappoint her. "please come along—won't you?"
"you mean when you go to light him?"
"yes."
"you really want me to?"
[pg 218]
he nodded.
a man was approaching them. he came round a bend in the road. it was lynndal barry.
"i've been for a little stroll," he explained. "these woods are certainly wonderful!"
"yes, we like them," replied hilda, in a very polite but at the same time very friendly tone. she was just a tiny bit afraid of the man who had come so far to marry her sister—not because mr. barry was the kind of man who spreads about him an aura of awe, but because hilda knew there was something the matter. yes, something seemed to be wrong. but hilda did not guess how wrong.
"were you going back to the cottage?" she asked.
"yes, i thought i would."
"then i'll walk back with you, if you don't mind."
"well, good-bye," said leslie.
"good-bye, les. you'll come for me?"
"yes."
"what time?"
"whenever you say."
"right after dinner?"
"all right."
"so long."
"so long, hilda."
he departed, scuffing foolishly and happily in the sand.
"we were cutting sticks for the roast," explained hilda as she walked back beside lynndal toward beachcrest.
[pg 219]
"it will be jolly," he remarked. "you know, i've never been to one of these beach roasts in my life."
"you never have?"
"no. and i've looked forward to the beach roasts ever since—well, ever since i knew i was going to be up here this summer."
"you see, you came just in time!"
"yes, didn't i?"
"the mid-summer assembly roast is the biggest roast of all."
"i'm in luck," he murmured.
and so they chatted together until beachcrest was reached.
