"Miss Lessler," said Cairns, "is a most unusual girl."
Neither men referred to the early days of their acquaintance with Cynthia Lessler. As though by tacit agreement those days seemed to have been entirely forgotten.
"A rarely intelligent and lovely comedienne," mused Cairns, poking the cigar ashes on the tray and finally laying aside his cigar. "Well, Jim, I suppose the office yawns for us. But it won't have anything on my yawn when I get there!"
They went back across Fifth Avenue in the brilliant afternoon sunshine, to dawdle about the office and fuss away the afternoon in pretense that the awakening of the Street from its long lethargy was imminent.
At half past three Cairns took himself off, leaving Desboro studying the sunshine on the ceiling. At five the latter awoke from his day dream, stood up, shook himself, drew a deep breath, and straightened his shoulders. Before him, now delicately blurred and charmingly indistinct, still floated the vision of his day-dream; and, with a slight effort, he could still visualise, as he moved out into the city and through its noise and glitter, south, into that quieter street where his day-dream's vision lived and moved and had her earthly being.
Mr. Mirk came smiling and bowing from the dim interior. There was no particular reason for the demonstration, but Desboro shook his hand cordially.
"Mrs. Desboro is in her office," said Mr. Mirk. "You know the way, sir – if you please – "
He knew the way. It was not likely that he would ever forget the path that he had followed that winter day.
At his knock she opened the door herself.
"I don't know how I knew it was your knock," she said, giving ground as he entered. There was an expression in his face that made her own brighten, as though perhaps she had not been entirely certain in what humour he might arrive.
"The car will be here in a few minutes," he said. "That's a tremendously pretty hat of yours."
"Do you like it? I saw it the other day. And somehow I felt extravagant this afternoon and telephoned for it. Do you really like it, Jim?"
"It's a beauty."
"I'm so glad – so relieved. Sometimes I catch you looking at me, Jim, and I wonder how critical you really are. I want you to like what I wear. You'll always tell me when you don't, won't you?"
"No fear of my not agreeing with your taste," he said cheerfully. "By the way – and apropos of nothing – Waudle won't bother you any more."
"Oh!"
"I believe Clydesdale interviewed him – and the other one – the poet." He laughed. "Afterward there was not enough remaining for me to interview."
Jacqueline's serious eyes, intensely blue, were lifted to his.
"We won't speak of them again, ever," she said in a low voice.
"Right, as always," he rejoined gaily.
She still stood looking at him out of grave and beautiful eyes, which seemed strangely shy and tender to him. Then, slowly shaking her head she said, half to herself:
"I have much to answer for – more than you must ever know. But I shall answer for it; never fear."
"What are you murmuring there all by yourself, Jacqueline?" he said smilingly; and ventured to take her gloved hand into his. She, too, smiled, faintly, and stood silent, pretty head bent, absorbed in her own thoughts.
A moment later a clerk tapped and announced their car. She looked up at her husband, and the confused colour in her face responded to the quick pressure of his hands.
"Are you quite ready to go?" he asked.
"Yes – ready always – to go where – you lead."
Her flushed face reflected the emotion in his as they went out together into the last rays of the setting sun.
"Have we time to motor to Silverwood?" she asked.
"Would you care to?"
"I'd love to."
So he spoke to the chauffeur and entered the car after her.
It was a strange journey for them both, with the memory of their last journey together still so fresh, so pitilessly clear, in their minds. In this car, over this road, beside this man, she had travelled with a breaking heart and a mind haunted by horror unspeakable.
To him the memory of that journey was no less terrible. They spoke to each other tranquilly but seriously, and in voices unconsciously lowered. And there were many lapses into stillness – many long intervals of silence. But during the longest of these, when the Westchester hills loomed duskily ahead, she slipped her hand into his and left it there until the lights of Silverwood glimmered low on the hill and the gate lanterns flashed in their eyes as the car swung into the fir-bordered drive and rolled up to the house.
"Home," she said, partly to herself; and he turned toward her in quick gratitude.
Once more the threatened emotion confused her, but she evaded it, forcing a gaiety not in accord with her mood, as he aided her to descend.
"Certainly it's my home, monsieur, as well as yours," she repeated, "and you'll feel the steel under the velvet hand of femininity as soon as I assume the reins of government. For example, you can not entertain your cats and dogs in the red drawing-room any more. Now do you feel the steel?"
They went to their sitting-room laughing.
About midnight she rose from the sofa. They had been discussing plans for the future, repairs, alterations, improvements for Silverwood House – and how to do many, many wonderful things at vast expense; and how to practice rigid economy and do nothing at all.
It had been agreed that he was to give up his rooms in town and use hers whenever they remained in New York over night. And, as she rose, he was still figuring out, with pencil and pad, how much they would save by this arrangement. Now he looked up, saw her standing, and rose too.
She looked at him with sweet, sleepy, humourous eyes.
"Isn't it disgraceful and absurd?" she said. "But if I don't have my sleep I simply become stupid and dreary and useless beyond words."
"Why did you let me keep you up?" he said gently.
"Because I wanted to stay up with you," she said. She had moved to the centre table where the white carnations, as usual, filled the bowl. Her slender hand touched them caressingly, lingered, and presently detached a blossom.
She lifted it dreamily, inhaling the fragrance and looking over its scented chalice at him.
"Good-night, Jim," she said.
"Good-night, dearest." He came over to her, hesitated, reddening; then bent and kissed her hand and the white flower it held.
At her own door she lingered, turning to look after him as he crossed his threshold; then slowly entered her room, her lips resting on the blossom which he had kissed.
CHAPTER XX
On Saturday afternoon Cynthia arrived at Silverwood House, with Cairns in tow; and they were welcomed under the trees by their host and hostess. Which was all very delightful until Cynthia and Jacqueline paired off with each other and disappeared, calmly abandoning Cairns and Desboro to their own devices, leaving them to gaze at each other in the library with bored and increasing indifference.
"You know, Jim," explained the former, in unfeigned disgust, "I have quite enough of you every day, and I haven't come sixty miles to see more of you."
"I sympathise with your sentiments," said Desboro, laughing, "but Miss Lessler has never before seen the place, and, of course, Jacqueline is dying to show it to her. And, Jack – did you ever see two more engaging young girls than the two who have just deserted us? Really, partiality aside, does any house in town contain two more dignified, intelligent, charming – "
"No, it doesn't!" said Cairns bluntly. "Nor any two women more upright and chaste. It's a fine text, isn't it, though?" he added morosely.
"How do you mean?"
"That their goodness is due to their characters, not to environment or to any material advantages. Has it ever occurred to you how doubly disgraceful it is for people, with every chance in the world, not to make good?"
"Yes."
"It has to me frequently of late. And I wonder what I'd have turned into, given Cynthia's worldly chances." He shook his head, muttering to himself: "It's fine, fine– to be what she is after what she has had to stack up against!"
Desboro winced. Presently he said in a low voice:
"The worst she had to encounter were men of our sort. That's a truth we can't blink. It wasn't loneliness or poverty or hunger that were dangerous; it was men."
"Don't," said Cairns, rising impatiently and striding about the room. "I know all about that. But it's over, God be praised. And I'm seeing things differently now – very, very differently. You are, too, I take it. So, for the love of Mike, let's be pleasant about it. I hate gloom. Can't a fellow regenerate himself and remain cheerful?"
Desboro laughed uncertainly, listening to the gay voices on the stairs, where Jacqueline and Cynthia were garrulously exploring the house together.
"Darling, it's too lovely!" exclaimed Cynthia, every few minutes, while Jacqueline was conducting her from one room to another, upstairs, down again, through the hall and corridor, accompanied by an adoring multitude of low-born dogs and nondescript cats, all running beside her with tails stuck upright.
And so, very happily together, they visited the kitchen, laundry, storeroom, drying room, engine room, cellars; made the fragrant tour of the greenhouses and a less fragrant visit to the garage; inspected the water supply; gingerly traversed the gravel paths of the kitchen garden, peeped into tool houses, carpenters' quarters; gravely surveyed compost heaps, manure pits, and cold frames.
Jacqueline pointed out the distant farm, with its barns, stables, dairy, and chicken runs, from the lantern of the windmill, whither they had climbed; and Cynthia looked out over the rolling country to the blue hills edging the Hudson, and down into gray woodlands where patches of fire signalled the swelling maple buds; and edging willows were palely green. Over brown earth and new grass robins were running; and bluebirds fluttered from tree to fencepost.
Cynthia's arm stole around Jacqueline's waist.
"I am so glad for you – so glad, so proud," she whispered. "Do you remember, once, long ago, I prophesied this for you? That you would one day take your proper place in the world?"
"Do you know," mused Jacqueline, "I don't really believe that the place matters so much – as long as one is all right. That sounds horribly priggish – but isn't it so, Cynthia?"
"Few ever attain that self-sufficient philosophy," said Cynthia, laughing. "You can spoil a gem by cheap setting."
"But it remains a gem. Oh, Cynthia! Am I such a prig as I sound?"
They were both laughing so gaily that the flock of pigeons on the roof were startled into flight and swung around them in whimpering circles.
As they started to descend the steep stairs, Jacqueline said casually:
"Do you continue to find Mr. Cairns as agreeable and interesting as ever?"
"Oh, yes," nodded the girl carelessly.
"Jim likes him immensely."
"He is a very pleasant companion," said Cynthia.
When they were strolling toward the house, she added:
"He thinks you are very wonderful, Jacqueline. But then everybody does."
The girl blushed: "The only thing wonderful about me is my happiness," she said.
Cynthia looked up into her eyes.
"Are you?"
"Happy? Of course."
"Is that quite true, dear?"
"Yes," said Jacqueline under her breath.
"And – there is no flaw?"
"None – now."
Cynthia impulsively caught up one of her hands and kissed it.
In the library they found beside their deserted swains two visitors, Daisy Hammerton and Captain Herrendene.
"Fine treatment!" protested Cairns, looking at Cynthia, as Jacqueline came forward with charming friendliness and greeted her guests and made Cynthia known to them. "Fine treatment!" he repeated scornfully, " – leaving Jim and me to yawn at each other until Daisy and the Captain yonder – "
"Jack," interrupted his pretty hostess, "if you push that button somebody will bring tea."
"Twice means that Scotch is to be included," remarked Desboro. "You didn't know that, did you, dear?"
"The only thing I know about your house, monsieur, is that your cats and dogs must not pervade the red drawing-room," she said laughing. "Look at Captain Herrendene's beautiful cutaway coat! It's all covered with fur and puppy hair! And now he can't go into the drawing-room, either!"
Cairns looked ruefully at a black and white cat which had jumped onto his knees and was purring herself to sleep there.
"If enough of 'em climb on me I'll have a motor coat for next winter," he said with resignation.
Tea was served; the chatter and laughter became general. Daisy Hammerton, always enamoured of literature, and secretly addicted to its creation, spoke of Orrin Munger's new volume which Herrendene had been reading to her that morning under the trees.
"Such a queer book," she said, turning to Jacqueline, " – and I'm not yet quite certain whether it's silly or profound. Captain Herrendene makes fun of it – but it seems as though there must be some meaning in it."
"There isn't," said Herrendene. "It consists of a wad of verse, blank, inverted, and symbolic. Carbolic is what it requires."
"Isn't that the moon-youth who writes over the heads of the public and far ahead of 'em into the next century?" inquired Cairns.
"When an author," said Herrendene, "thinks he is writing ahead of his readers, the chances are that he hasn't yet caught up with them."
The only flaw in Daisy Hammerton's good sense was a mistaken respect for printed pages. She said, reverently:
"When a poet like Orrin Munger refers to himself as a Cubist and a Futurist, it must have some occult significance. Besides, he went about a good deal last winter, and I met him."
"What did you think of him?" asked Desboro drily.
"I scarcely knew. He is odd. He kissed everybody's hand and spoke with such obscurity about his work – referred to it in such veiled terms that, somehow, it all seemed a wonderful mystery to me."
Desboro smiled: "The man who is preëminent in his profession," he said quietly, "never makes a mystery of it. He may be too tired to talk about it, too saturated with it, after the day's work, to discuss it; but never fool enough to pretend that there is anything occult in it or in the success he has made of it. Only incompetency is self-conscious and secretive; only the ass strikes attitudes."
Jacqueline looked at him with pride unutterable. She thought as he did.
He smiled at her, encouraged, and went on:
"The complacent tickler of phrases, the pseudo-intellectual scrambler after subtleties that do not exist, the smirking creators of the tortuous, the writhing explorers of the obvious, who pretend to find depths where there are shallows, the unusual where only the commonplace and wholesome exist – these will always parody real effort, and ape real talent in all creative professions, and do more damage than mere ignorance or even mere viciousness could ever accomplish. And, to my mind, that is all there is and all there ever will be to men like Munger."
Daisy laughed and looked at Herrendene.
"Then I've wasted your morning!" she said, pretending contrition.
He looked her straight in the eye.
"I hadn't thought of it that way," he said pleasantly.
Cairns, tired of feigning an interest in matters literary, tinkled the ice in his glass and looked appealingly at Cynthia. And his eyes said very plainly: "Shall we go for a walk?"
But she only smiled, affecting not to understand; and the discussion of things literary continued.
It was very pleasant there in the house; late sunshine slanted across the hall; a springlike breeze fluttered the curtains, and the evening song of the robins had begun, ringing cheerily among the Norway spruces and over the fresh green lawns.
"It's a shame to sit indoors on a day like this," said Desboro lazily.
Everybody agreed, but nobody stirred, except Cairns, who fidgeted and looked at Cynthia.
Perhaps that maiden's heart softened, for she rose presently, and drifted off into the music room. Cairns followed. The others listened to her piano playing, conversing, too, at intervals, until Daisy gave the signal to go, and Herrendene rose.
So the adieux were said, and a wood ramble for the morrow suggested. Then Daisy and her Captain went away across the fields on foot, and Cynthia returned to the piano, Cairns following at heel, as usual.
Jacqueline and Desboro, lingering by the open door, saw the distant hills turn to purest cobalt, and the girdling woodlands clothe themselves in purple haze. Dusk came stealing across the meadows, and her frail ghosts floated already over the alder-hidden brook. A near robin sang loudly. A star came out between naked branches and looked at them.
"How still the world has grown," breathed Jacqueline. "Except for its silence, night with all its beauties would be unendurable."
"I believe we both need quiet," he said.
"Yes, quiet – and each other."
Her voice had fallen so exquisitely low that he bent his head to catch her words. But when he understood what she had said, he turned and looked at her; and, still gazing on the coming night, she leaned a little nearer to him, resting her cheek lightly against his shoulder.
"That is what we need," she whispered, " – silence, and each other. Don't you think so, Jim?"
"I need you– your love and faith and – forgiveness," he said huskily.
"You have them all. Now give me yours, Jim."
"I give you all – except forgiveness. I have nothing to forgive."
"You dear boy – you don't know – you will never know how much you have to forgive me. But if I told you, I know you'd do it. So – let it rest – forgotten forever. How fragrant the night is growing! And I can hear the brook at intervals when the wind changes – very far away – very far – as far as fairyland – as far as the abode of the Maker of Moons."
"Who was he, dear?"
"Yu Lao. It's Chinese – and remote – lost in mystery eternal – where the white soul of her abides who went forth 'between tall avenues of spears, to die.' And that is where all things go at last, Jim – even the world and the moon and stars – all things – even love – returning to the source of all."
His arm had fallen around her waist. Presently, in the dusk, he felt her cool, fresh hand seeking for his, drawing his arm imperceptibly closer.
In the unlighted music room Cynthia's piano was silent.
Presently Jacqueline's cheek touched his, rested against it.
"I never knew I could feel so safe," she murmured. "I am – absolutely – contented."
"Do you love me?"
"Yes."
"You have no fear of me now?"
"No. But don't kiss me – yet," she whispered, tightening his arm around her.
He laughed softly: "Your Royal Shyness is so wonderful – so wonderful – so worshipful and adorable! When may I kiss you?"
"When – we are alone."
"Will you respond – when we are alone?"
But she only pressed her flushed cheek against his shoulder, clinging there in silence, eyes closed.
A few seconds later they started guiltily apart, as Cairns came striding excitedly out of the darkness:
"I'm going to get married! I'm going to get married!" he repeated breathlessly. "I've asked her, but she is crying! Isn't it wonderful! Isn't it wonderful! Isn't it won – "
"You!" exclaimed Jacqueline, "and Cynthia! The darling!"
"I said she was one! I called her that, too!" said Cairns, excitedly. "And she began to cry. So I came out here – and I think she's going to accept me in a minute or two! Isn't it wonderful! Isn't it won – "
"You lunatic!" cried Desboro, seizing and shaking him, " – you incoherent idiot! If that girl is in there crying all alone, what are you doing out here?"
"I don't know," said Cairns vacantly. "I don't know what I'm doing. All this is too wonderful for me. I thought she knew me too well to care for me. But she only began to cry. And I am going – "
He bolted back into the dark music room. Desboro and Jacqueline gazed at each other.
"That man is mad!" snapped her husband. "But – I believe she means to take him. Don't you?"
"Why – I suppose so," she managed to answer, stifling a violent inclination to laugh.
They listened shamelessly. They stood there for a long while, listening. And at last two shadowy figures appeared coming toward them very slowly. One walked quietly into Jacqueline's arms; the other attempted it with Desboro, and was repulsed.
"You're not French, you know," said the master of the house, shaking hands with him viciously. "Never did I see such a blooming idiot as you can be – but if Cynthia can stand you, I'll have to try."
Jacqueline whispered: "Cynthia and I want to be alone for a little while. Take him away, Jim."
So Desboro lugged off the happy but demoralised suitor and planted him in a library chair vigorously.
"Now," he said, "how about it? Has she accepted you?"
"She hasn't said a word yet. I've done nothing but talk and she's done nothing but listen. It knocked me galley west, too. But it happened before I realised it. She was playing on the piano, and suddenly I knew that I wanted to marry her. And I said 'You darling!' And she grew white and began to cry."
"Did you ask her to marry you?"
"About a thousand times."
"Didn't she say anything?"
"Not a word."
"That's odd," said Desboro, troubled.
A few minutes later the clock struck.
"Come on, anyway," he said, "we've scarcely time to dress."
In his room later, tying his tie, Cairns' uncertainty clouded his own happiness a little; and when he emerged to wait in the sitting-room for Jacqueline, he was still worrying over it.
When Jacqueline opened her door and saw his perplexed and anxious face, she came forward in her pretty dinner gown, startled, wondering.
"What is it, Jim?" she asked, her heart, still sensitive from the old, healed wounds, sinking again in spite of her.
"I'm worried about that girl – "
"What girl!"
"Cynthia – "
"Oh! That! Jim, you frightened me!" She laid one hand on her heart for a moment, breathed deeply her relief, then looked at him and laughed.
"Silly! Of course she loves him."
"Jack says that she didn't utter a word – "
"She uttered several to me. Rather foolish ones, Jim – about her life's business – the stage – and love. As though love and the business of life were incompatible! Anyway, she'd choose him."
"Is she going to accept him?"
"Of course she is. I – I don't mean it in criticism – and I love Cynthia – but I think she is a trifle temperamental – as well as being the dearest, sweetest girl in the world – "
She took his arm with a pretty confidence of ownership that secretly thrilled him, and they went down stairs together, she talking all the while.
"Didn't I tell you?" she whispered, as they caught a glimpse of the library in passing, where Cairns stood holding Cynthia's hands between his own and kissing them. "Wait, Jim, darling! You mustn't interrupt them – "
"I'm going to!" he said, exasperated. "I want to know what they're going to do – "
"Jim!"
"Oh, all right, dear. Only they gave me a good scare when I wanted to be alone with you."
She pressed his arm slightly:
"You haven't noticed my gown."
"It's a dream!" He kissed her shoulder lace, and she flushed and caught his arm, then laughed, disconcerted by her own shyness.
Farris presented himself with a tray of cocktails.
"Jack! Come on!" called Desboro; and, as that gentleman sauntered into view with Cynthia on his arm, something in the girl's delicious and abashed beauty convinced her host. He stretched out his hand; she took it, looking at him out of confused but sincere eyes.
"Is it all right to wish you happiness, Cynthia?"
"It is quite all right – thank you."
"And to drink this H. P. W. to your health and happiness?"
"That," she said laughingly, "is far more serious. But – you may do so, please."
The ceremony ended, Desboro said to Jacqueline, deprecatingly:
"This promises to be a jolly, but a rather noisy, dinner. Do you mind?"
And it was both – an exceedingly jolly and unusually noisy dinner for four. Jacqueline and Cynthia both consented to taste the champagne in honour of this occasion only; then set aside their glasses, inflexible in their prejudice. Which boded well for everybody concerned, especially to two young men to whom any countenance of that sort might ultimately have proved no kindness.
And Jacqueline was as wise as she was beautiful; and Cynthia's intuition matched her youthful loveliness, making logic superfluous.
Feeling desperately frivolous after coffee, they lugged out an old-time card table and played an old-time game of cards – piquet – gambling so recklessly that Desboro lost several cents to Cairns before the evening was over, and Jacqueline felt that she had been dreadfully and rather delightfully imprudent.
Then midnight sounded from the distant stable clock, and every timepiece in the house echoed the far Westminster chimes.
Good-nights were said; Jacqueline went away with Cynthia to the latter's room; Desboro accompanied Cairns, and endured the latter's rhapsodies as long as he could, ultimately escaping.
In their sitting-room Jacqueline was standing beside the bowl of white carnations, looking down at them. When he entered she did not raise her head until he took her into his arms. Then she looked up into his eyes and lifted her face. And for the first time her warm lips responded to his kiss.
She trembled a little as he held her, and laid her cheek against his breast, both hands resting on his shoulders. After a while he was aware that her heart was beating as though she were frightened.
"Dearest," he whispered.
There was no answer.
"Dearest?"
He could feel her trembling.
After a long while he said, very gently: "Come back and say good-night to me when you are ready, dear." And quietly released her.
And she went away slowly to her room, not looking at him. And did not return.
So at one o'clock he turned off the lights and went into his own room. It was bright with moonlight. On his dresser lay a white carnation and a key. But he did not see them.
Far away in the woods he heard the stream rushing, bank full, through the darkness, and he listened as he moved about in the moonlight. Tranquil, he looked out at the night for a moment, then quietly composed himself to slumber, not doubting, serene, happy, convinced that her love was his.
For a long while he thought of her; and, thinking, dreamed of her at last – so vividly that into his vision stole the perfume of her hair and the faint fresh scent of her hands, as when he had kissed the slender fingers. And the warmth of her, too, seemed real, and the sweetness of her breath.
His eyes unclosed. She lay there, in her frail Chinese robe, curled up beside him in the moonlight, her splendid hair framing a face as pale as the flower that had fallen from her half-closed hand. And at first he thought she was asleep.
Then, in the moonlight, her eyes opened divinely, met his, lingered unafraid, and were slowly veiled again. Neither stirred until, at last, her arms stole up around his neck and her lips whispered his name as though it were a holy name, loved, honoured, and adored.