A LADY OF SHADOWS AND STARLIGHT
Still do the stars impart their light
To those that travel in the night;
Still time runs on, nor doth the hand
Or shadow on the dial stand;
The streams still glide and constant are:
Only thy mind
Untrue I find
Which carelessly
Neglects to be
Like stream or shadow, hand or star.
—William Cartwright.
It was nine o'clock before Ijima came in, dripping from his tumble in the lake and his walk home through the rain. The Italian had made no effort to molest him, he reported; but he had watched the man row out to the Stiletto and climb aboard. Ijima has an unbroken record of never having asked me a question inspired by curiosity. He may inquire which shoes I want for a particular morning, but why, where and when are unknown in his vocabulary. He was, I knew, fairly entitled to an explanation of the incident of the afternoon, though he would ask none, and when he had changed his clothes and reported to me in the library I told him in a word that there might be further trouble, and that I should expect him to stand night watch at St. Agatha's for a while, dividing a patrol of the grounds with the gardener. His "Yes, sir," was as calm as though I had told him to lay out my dress clothes, and I went with him to look up the gardener, that the division of patrol duty might be thoroughly understood.
I gave the Scotchman a revolver and Ijima bore under his arm a repeating rifle with which he and I had diverted ourselves at times in the pleasant practice of breaking glass balls. I assigned him the water-front and told the gardener to look out for intruders from the road. These precautions taken, I rang the bell at St. Agatha's and asked for the ladies, but was relieved to learn that they had retired, for the situation would not be helped by debate, and if they were to remain at St. Agatha's it was my affair to plan the necessary defensive strategy without troubling them. And I must admit here, that at all times, from the moment I first saw Helen Holbrook with her father at Red Gate, I had every intention of shielding her to the utmost. The thought of trapping her, of catching her, flagrante delicto, was revolting; I had, perhaps, a notion that in some way I should be able to thwart her without showing my own hand; but this, as will appear, was not to be so easily accomplished.
I went home and read for an hour, then got into heavy shoes and set forth to reconnoiter. The chief avenue of danger lay, I imagined, across the lake, and I passed through St. Agatha's to see that my guards were about their business; then continued along a wooded bluff that rose to a considerable height above the lake. There was a winding path which the pilgrimages of school-girls in spring and autumn had worn hard, and I followed it to its crest, where there was a stone bench, established for the ease of those who wished to take their sunsets in comfort. The place commanded a fair view of the lake, and thence it was possible to see afar off any boat that approached St. Agatha's or Glenarm. The wooded bluff was cool and sweet from the rain, and a clear light was diffused by the moon as I lighted my pipe and looked out upon the lake for signs of the Stiletto.
The path that rose through the wood from St. Agatha's declined again from the seat, and came out somewhere below, where there was a spring sacred to the school-girls, and where, I dare say, they still indulge in the incantations of their species. I amused myself picking out the pier lights as far as I had learned them, following one of the lake steamers on its zigzag course from Port Annandale to the village. Around me the great elms and maples still dripped. Eleven chimed from the chapel clock, the strokes stealing up to me dreamily. A moment later I heard a step in the path behind me, light, quick, and eager, and I bent down low on the bench, so that its back shielded me from view, and waited. I heard the sharp swish of bent twigs in the shrubbery as they snapped back into place in the narrow trail, and then the voice of some one humming softly. The steps drew closer to the bench, and some one passed behind me. I was quite sure that it was a woman—from the lightness of the step, the feminine quality in the voice that continued to hum a little song, and at the last moment the soft rustle of skirts. I rose and spoke her name before my eyes were sure of her.
"Miss Holbrook!" I exclaimed.
She did not cry out, though she stepped back quickly from the bench.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Donovan, is it?"
"It most certainly is!" I laughed. "We seem to have similar tastes, Miss Holbrook."
"An interest in geography, shall we call it?" she chaffed gaily.
"Or astronomy! We will assume that we are both looking for the Little Dipper."
"Good!" she returned on my own note. "Between the affairs of the Holbrooks and your evening Dipper hunt you are a busy man, Mr. Donovan."
"I am not half so busy as you are, Miss Holbrook! It must tax you severely to maintain both sides of the barricade at the same time," I ventured boldly.
"That does require some ingenuity," she replied musingly, "but I am a very flexible character."
"But what will bend will break—you may carry the game too far."
"Oh, are you tired of it already?"
"Not a bit of it; but I should like to make this stipulation with you: that as you and I seem to be pitted against each other in this little contest, we shall fight it all out behind Miss Pat's back. I prefer that she shouldn't know what a—" and I hesitated.
"Oh, give me a name, won't you?" she pleaded mockingly.
"What a beautiful deceiver you are!"
"Splendid! We will agree that I am a deceiver!"
"If it gives you pleasure! You are welcome to all the joy you can get out of it!"
"Please don't be bitter! Let us play fair, and not stoop to abuse."
"I should think you would feel contrite enough after that ugly business of this afternoon. You didn't appear to be even annoyed by that Italian's effort to smash the launch."
She was silent for an instant; I heard her breath come and go quickly; then she responded with what seemed a forced lightness:
"You really think that was inspired by—" she suddenly appeared at a loss.
"By Henry Holbrook, as you know well enough. And if Miss Pat should be murdered through his enmity, don't you see that your position in the matter would be difficult to explain? Murder, my dear young woman, is not looked upon complacently, even in this remote corner of the world!"
"You seem given to the use of strong language, Mr. Donovan. Let us drop the calling of names and consider just where you put me."
"I don't put you at all; you have taken your own stand. But I will say that I was surprised, not to say pained, to find that you played the eavesdropper the very hour you came to Annandale."
A moment's silence; the water murmured in the reeds below; an owl hooted in the Glenarm wood; a restless bird chirped from its perch in a maple overhead.
"Oh, to be sure!" she said at last. "You thought I was listening while Aunt Pat unfolded the dark history of the Holbrooks."
"I knew it, though I tried to believe I was mistaken. But when I saw you there on Tippecanoe Creek, meeting your father at the canoe-maker's house, I was astounded; I did not know that depravity could go so far."
"My poor, unhappy, unfortunate father!" she said in a low voice; there was almost a moan in it.
"I suppose you defend your conduct on the ground of filial duty," I suggested, finding it difficult to be severe.
"Why shouldn't I? Who are you to judge our affairs? We are the unhappiest family that ever lived; but I should like you to know that it was not by my wish that you were brought into our councils. There is more in all this than appears!"
"There is nothing in it but Miss Pat—her security, her peace, her happiness. I am pledged to her, and the rest of you are nothing to me. But you may tell your father that I have been in rows before and that I propose to stand by the guns."
"I shall deliver your message, Mr. Donovan; and I give you my father's thanks for it," she mocked.
"Your father calls you Rosalind—before strangers!" I remarked.
"Yes. It's a fancy of his," she murmured lingeringly. "Sometimes it's Viola, or Perdita, but, as I think of it, it's oftener Rosalind. I hope you don't object, Mr. Donovan?"
"No, I rather like it; it's in keeping with your variable character. You seem prone, like Rosalind, to woodland wandering. I dare say the other people of the cast will appear in due season. So far I have seen only the Fool."
"The Fool? Oh, yes; there was Touchstone, wasn't there?"
"I believe it is admitted that there was."
She laughed; I felt that we were bound to get on better, now that we understood each other.
"You are rather proud of your attainments, aren't you? I have really read the play, Mr. Donovan: I have even seen it acted."
"I did not mean to reflect on your intelligence, which is acute enough; or on your attainments, which are sufficient; or on your experience of life, which is ample!"
"Well spoken! I really believe that I am liking you better all the time, Mr. Donovan."
"My heart is swollen with gratitude. You heard my talk with your father at his cottage last night. And then you flew back to Miss Pat and played the hypocrite with the artlessness of Rosalind—the real Rosalind."
"Did I? Then I'm as clever as I am wicked. You, no doubt, are as wise as you are good."
She folded her arms with a quick movement, the better, I thought, to express satisfaction with her own share of the talk; then her manner changed abruptly. She rested her hands on the back of the bench and bent toward me.
"My father dealt very generously with you. You were an intruder. He was well within his rights in capturing you. And, more than that, you drew to our place some enemies of your own who may yet do us grave injury."
"They were no enemies of mine! Didn't you hear me debating that matter with your father? They were his enemies and they pounced on me by mistake. It's not their fault that they didn't kill me!"
"That's a likely story. That little creek is the quietest place in the world."
"How do you know?" I demanded, bending closer toward her.
"Because my father tells me so! That was the reason he chose it."
"He wanted a place to hide when the cities became too hot for him. I advise you, Miss Holbrook, in view of all that has happened, and if you have any sense of decency left, to keep away from there."
"And I suggest to you, Mr. Donovan, that your devotion to my aunt does not require you to pursue my father. You do well to remember that a stranger thrusting himself into the affairs of a family he does not know puts himself in a very bad light."
"I am not asking your admiration, Miss Holbrook."
"You may save yourself the trouble!" she flashed; and then laughed out merrily. "Let us not be so absurd! We are quarreling like two school-children over an apple. It's really a pleasure to meet you in this unconventional fashion, but we must be amiable. Our affairs will not be settled by words—I am sure of that. I must beg of you, the next time you come forth at night, to wear your cloak and dagger. The stage-setting is fair enough; and the players should dress their parts becomingly. I am already named Rosalind—at night; Aunt Pat we will call the Duchess in exile; and we were speaking a moment ago of the Fool. Well, yes; there was a Fool."
"I might take the part myself, if Gillespie were not already cast for it."
"Gillespie?" she said wonderingly; then added at once, as though memory had prompted her: "To be sure there is Gillespie."
"There is certainly Gillespie. Perhaps you would liefer call him Orlando?" I ventured.
"Let me see," she pondered, bending her head; then: "'O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puisny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose; but all's brave that youth mounts and folly guides.'"
"That is Celia's speech, but well rendered. Let us consider that you are Rosalind, Celia, Viola and Ariel all in one. And I shall be those immortal villains of old tragedy—first, second and third murtherer; or, if it suit you better, let me be Iago for honesty; Othello for great adventures; Hamlet for gloom; Shylock for relentlessness, and Romeo for love-sickness."
Again she bent her head; then drawing a little away and clasping her hands, she quoted: "'Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very, very Rosalind?'"
I stammered a moment, dimly recalling Orlando's reply in the play. I did not know whether she were daring me; and this was certainly not the girl's mood as we had met at St. Agatha's. My heart leaped and the blood tingled in my finger-tips as memory searched out the long-forgotten scene; and suddenly I threw at her the line:
"'How if the kiss be denied?'"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"The rehearsal has gone far enough. Let us come back to earth again."
But this, somehow, was not so easy.
Far across the lake a heavy train rumbled, and its engine blew a long blast for Annandale. I felt at that instant the unreality of the day's events, with their culmination in this strange interview on the height above the lake. Never, I thought, had man parleyed with woman on so extraordinary a business. In the brief silence, while the whistle's echoes rang round the shore, I drew away from the bench that had stood like a barricade between us and walked toward her. I did not believe in her; she had flaunted her shameful trickery in my face; and yet I felt her spell upon me as through the dusk I realized anew her splendid height, the faint disclosure of her noble head and felt the glory of her dark eyes. Verily, a lady of shadows, moonlight and dreams, whom it befitted well to walk forth at night, bent upon plots and mischief, and compelling love in such foolish hearts as mine. She did not draw away, but stood quietly, with her head uplifted, a light scarf caught about her shoulders, and on her head a round sailors cap, tipped away from her face.
"You must go back; I must see you safely to St. Agatha's," I said.
She turned, drawing the scarf close under her throat with a quick gesture, as though about to go. She laughed with more honest glee than I had known in her before, and I forgot her duplicity, forgot the bold game she was playing, and the consequences to which it must lead; my pulses bounded when a bit of her scarf touched my hand as she flung a loose end over her shoulder.
"My dear Mr. Donovan, you propose the impossible! We are foes, you must remember, and I can not accept your escort."
"But I have a guard about the house; you are likely to get into trouble if you try to pass through. I must ask you to remember our pledge, that you are not to vex Miss Pat unnecessarily in this affair. To rouse her in the night would only add to her alarm. She has had enough to worry her already. And I rather imagine," I added bitterly, "that you don't propose killing her with your own hands."
"No; do give me credit for that!" she mocked. "But I shall not disturb your guards, and I shall not distress Aunt Pat by making a row in the garden trying to run your pickets. I want you to stay here five minutes—count them honestly—until I have had time to get back in my own fashion. Is it a bargain?" She put out her hand as she turned away—her left hand. As my fingers closed upon it an instant the emerald ring touched my palm.
"I should think you would not wear that ring," I said, detaining her hand, "it is too like hers; it is as though you were plighted to her by it."
"Yes; it is like her own; she gave it—"
She choked and caught her breath sharply and her hand flew to her face.
"She gave it to my mother, long ago," she said, and ran away down the path toward the school. A bit of gravel loosened by her step slipped after her to a new resting-place; then silence and the night closed upon her.
I threw myself upon the bench and waited, marveling at her. If I had not touched her hand; if I had not heard her voice; if, more than all, I had not talked with her of her father, of Miss Pat, of intimate things which no one else could have known, I should not have believed that I had seen Helen Holbrook face to face.