The Prodigal Pro Tem by Frederick Orin Bartlett - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXVII
 IN WHICH EVERYONE LEARNS SOMETHING

Twice now Eleanor had seen in a man’s eyes the dumb pain of an unuttered tragedy,—once when Barnes had gone back to New York; again this afternoon, when Carl had bade her good-by and been driven off down the saffron road. In the first case she had played no part, though the ache of it still haunted her; in the second it was clear that she was the direct cause. And yet as she stood by the sitting-room window after supper and retraced this last summer, she saw nothing that she could have managed differently. Incident had followed incident with apparent inevitability. Of course she should have been surer of herself before giving Carl such encouragement, but under the circumstances of the moment she had acted with what wisdom she then had. The unrest, the doubts developing into certainty, had followed later.

But argue as she might, she was left with the feeling that she had been pitifully weak and was decidedly unworthy of the love which had been offered her. She needed someone in whom to confide—someone to help her straighten out this tangle. Joe could not help, nor Aunt Philomela, nor even her father. She thought of just one man who might understand, and that one man was in the next room talking with her aunt. Even as she thought of him the one man entered and came across to her side. Whereupon she murmured an excuse and started to leave. But Barnes checked her.

“Don’t go,” he pleaded. “You’re worried.”

He had touched her arm just the fraction of a second. She looked towards the door, startled. She felt very uncomfortable now that she was alone with the one man. Instead of clarifying matters, he seemed to complicate them.

“You take Carl’s departure much to heart?” he asked.

“Because I feel very much at fault,” she replied.

She was looking out the window across the rows of bright flowers, across the green fields, to the horizon line. To Barnes she appeared like a painting by Rossetti. With her head uplifted, her eyes half closed, as though in weary confusion, she looked like the Beata Beatrix.

“Because Carl loves you?” he asked suddenly.

She caught her breath. It sounded such a crude, barbaric fact when he expressed it. She looked for some escape. She prayed that he might leave her alone. He stood before her as though barring her way.

“No! No!” she exclaimed. “He is mistaken.”

“I do not think he is mistaken,” he answered quietly.

He seemed bent upon depriving her of the one shred of hope to which she had been clinging. He made her feel even guiltier than before.

“Mr. Barnes,” she pleaded, “let’s not talk of it any more.”

“It’s the only way to settle things,” he answered gently. “There’s no use of hiding our heads in the sand.”

“But Carl has gone. It’s all settled.”

“No,” he answered deliberately. “It’s still very much mixed up for all of us. We can’t help Carl very much except by admitting the truth, and that is that he loves you. He would have made beautiful songs for you if you had loved him.”

“It’s cruel of you to make me feel so guilty,” she protested.

“You misunderstand,” he said gently. “His love was independent of anything you did consciously. You would have had to be other than yourself to have prevented that.”

“I should have known myself better.”

“We can’t correct the past with what we learn, but the Future—there is where our wisdom counts.”

“What will that count for Carl?” she exclaimed, with a queer little cry.

He thought a moment. Then he shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I was thinking only of you.”

“But I—I don’t matter.”

“One thing matters very much for you,” he said.

“And that?” she asked anxiously.

“That you are now sure of yourself; that you are sure you do not really love him.”

She started, but she did not reply. The stark sunlight which had been pounding hotly at the earth all day was now fading. The birds were getting sleepy.

It was at about this time of day that Barnes had first met her. Then she had been only a strikingly beautiful picture, and now—what a deal more she was to him now! Until this moment his love for her had seemed so big that it had been almost impersonal. Circumstances had forced him to regard it so. It had been almost like some of the big fine dreams he had dreamed about his Art. Now, in a second, with that question, he felt her for the first time as a warm, palpitating, human being. As an artist he had admired her first, then as a mere man, then as a lover; but now, as he waited for her reply, it was as Richard Barnes that he loved her. For the first time he had to wrestle hard with himself for control. He hungered to feel her in his arms, to brush with his lips the scarlet in her cheeks, which was as rose upon ivory. He yearned to mingle kisses with the black of her hair, which had gold in it. He gathered himself together and repeated his question,

“You are sure of that?” he demanded.

There must have been some new quality to his voice, because she shrank back from him.

“I’m not sure of anything,” she stammered.

The one man frightened her. The one man now drove all thought of Carl out of her bewildered brain. The one man was in himself a yet keener problem than any she had so far had to face.

“Eleanor,” he insisted, “that is one thing you must search your soul to answer.”

“But why must I answer now?” she parried.

“Because,” he said quietly—“because if you love him I must wire him to-night on my way to Chester.”

“You—you are going, too?”

The words fell from her lips unconsciously.

“If you wish me to bring back Carl,” he answered.

“But I don’t,” she exclaimed. “It wouldn’t do any good to bring him back.”

She felt his hand upon her arm for the second time.

“You are sure of that?” he demanded.

“Yes. Yes. That is the pity of it.”

“The pity of it,” he answered soberly. Then again, “The pity of it.”

“Don’t you see,” she hurried on, surer of her ground now, “I ought to love him. There is every reason why I should love him. And yet I don’t. I can’t.”

She uttered the words as though it were a confession from which she expected Barnes to withdraw in horror. Leaning forward he searched her eyes as though once for all to penetrate the hidden gallery of her heart. She closed her eyes, frightened by his earnestness.

“You are sure of that?” he asked again.

She nodded guiltily.

“It’s a pitiful thing to say,” she murmured, “but it’s true.”

She held her breath to see what he would answer to that. For what seemed to her an eternity he didn’t say anything. When he did speak she was almost tempted into hysterical laughter. But she managed to control herself.

“Why, then,” he said, “let’s go up on the hill back of the house.”

She glanced into his blue eyes. When he led the way she followed. They went out by the little Dutch door and he closed it behind them. It was as though he closed a thousand doors behind her.

She stepped into the path, and it seemed to stretch in an endless vista beyond the top of the hill. She thought of De Soto and La Salle and Champlain, and knew how they must have felt as they turned their backs upon their home friends. And yet, so far as anything had been said, this was a simple venture to the top of a hill to view a sunset. All about her lay the nooks and crannies with which she had been so long familiar. She glanced back at the house. It had receded many miles. She was alone. That was what frightened her. The years before counted for nothing—her old friends counted for nothing. She felt like one daring for the first time into deep water without a supporting arm. And there was no shore back of her. She must go forward across the golden green waves, which sang in unreckoned miles, leagues in front of her. She was alone. She had now only her own heart to guide her. All the tender souls who had ever stood about her might be eager, but they could give no answer to the questions which beset her suddenly on this simple venture to the top of a hill. Her mother, perhaps—but in the end even her mother must have been left behind.

Through the old garden they went, and the flowers smiled back at her. She plucked a half-folded poppy and grasped its stem as a child clings to a skirt. She stopped a moment to play with the others, but he said,

“Come.”

So she went on again up the winding path which she had trod no later than yesterday. The hill loomed before her like one of those purple-capped piles she had seen in the sunset clouds. The sun caught her hair slantwise and brought out the gold in it.

“Are you tired?” he asked, as she lagged a little.

“No. Oh, no,” she answered breathlessly.

She hurried to his side. There was nothing else to do. The path was blocked behind but it was wonderfully clear in front. Not so much as a cobweb barred her progress.

Upon the hill-top they found great banners of purple and gold waving before their eyes against a background of blue and green. Below them the verdure of the rolling fields and maple clumps were also tinted with gold. The air was soft, and yet it sparkled as though fine gold were being sifted down from above. A wonderful world, and they two stood alone in it. Populous cities subsiding their turmoil; men and women going about the ordinary routine of their lives; ships putting to sea and men being carried to hospitals—all those things there might be for others outside the circumference of their eyes, but to them mere phantasies, pleasant and unpleasant. They stood alone here and the fact of grappling kingdoms and great deeds elsewhere were but the tawdriest distant incidents.

Before their eyes the colors strutted the skies like vain peacocks showing their plumage. But always, whether the dye was of crimson or green or purple or the lightest shade of old-rose, the gold shone through it to quicken. It was as though the theme were gold. It came as a prelude. It ran triumphant through every movement, and in the end it controlled the tinted postlude which softened imperceptibly into the golden blue of the finale.

With this her thoughts grew more restful. She no longer felt afraid though still she stood alone. He was speaking.

“Do you remember,” he asked gently, “what I told you about the true adventurers?”

“About the little children?” she answered nodding.

“And about the lovers?” he added.

“Yes,” she was forced to admit.

He had spoken of the dangers in a way that had frightened her. Looking down upon this same scene he had pointed them all out to her. And yet now it was difficult to grasp them.

“When two go adventuring hand in hand the dangers are halved,” he said.

It was as though he had answered her unspoken thought.

“Then,” he added, “they are halved again and then halved once more until they are all gone.”

Her eyes had grown distant. Her breath was coming in little gasps. The true explanation of these last weeks came in upon her now. Twice she had seen in a man’s eyes the dumb pain of an unuttered tragedy, but now she remembered only the first time,—when the one man had left her to go back to New York. In sudden fear she turned to see if any trace of the pain were still there. She found herself looking into blue eyes which were as quick with fine gold as the sky itself. They made her dizzy. She tottered. Then she felt herself in the grasp of strong arms.

“Into the West,” he murmured, “straight into the West, my own.”

Her head dropped to his shoulder. She was trembling, and once again he heard the plaintive little sound he had heard by the letter-box. In amazement he tried to lift her head, but with a sob she only burrowed it deeper. So he kissed her hair and patted her very gently and waited.

Whether it was one minute later or one year later that Barnes heard her voice he could not have told. He was way off beyond the horizon line when he caught her broken statement.

“I sha’n’t lift my head until—until it’s dark.”

The statement did not seem to disturb him. He kissed her hair.

“I’m very stupid,” she gasped.

He kissed her hair again.

“And very weak,” she murmured.

He kissed her hair once more.

“And—and altogether unworthy of you.”

Whereupon he took her head in his hands and held it back. Her eyes were tight closed.

“Eleanor,” he called.

“No! No! No!” she pleaded.

He brought his lips to hers. For a second she allowed it so. Then she opened her eyes wide—very, very wide.

“Dear you,” he breathed. “We have started on the Great Adventure.”

Then, for the first time, she saw a man’s face glorified.

“Come,” he said, “we must go back to Aunt Philomela.”

Her heart fell and all the way down the hill she clung to his arm. Every now and then he stopped and looked deep into her eyes. He made her very uncomfortable; deliriously uncomfortable.

Aunt Philomela was waiting for them in the sitting-room. When they entered she glanced up as sharply as she had the day Barnes had first made his entrance. The girl drew back and waited for Barnes to speak. He said nothing. She was sure her face was red and that her hair was in disorder.

“Well?” demanded Aunt Philomela.

With a quick little run the girl threw herself on her knees by her aunt’s side and buried her face in her lap. Barnes waited. Aunt Philomela’s black eyes grew dangerous.

“Well?” she demanded again.

“Oh, Aunty,” cried the girl, “can’t—can’t you see?”

For a moment Aunt Philomela stared at Barnes. Then she stooped and kissed the girl’s head.

“Yes,” she answered slowly, “I see. I saw long ago.”

THE END