But he left the big stove as it had been; and the rather quaint old chairs with their rush-bottoms renovated and their lustrous wood stained and polished by years of use.
Every other day he went to Spring Pond from his office in New York to watch the progress of the work. The contractor was under penalty; Clive had not balked at the expense; and the work was put through with a rush.
In the meanwhile he called on Athalie occasionally, pretending always whenever she spoke of it, that negotiations were still under way concerning the property in question, and that such transactions required patience and time.
One matter, too, was gradually effaced from his mind. The tall man and the short man who had been following him so persistently had utterly disappeared. And nobody else seemed to have taken their places. Eventually he forgot it altogether.
Two months was the period agreed upon for the completion of Athalie’s house and garden, and the first week in July found the work done.
It had promised to be a hot week in the city: Athalie, who had been nowhere except for an evening at some suburban restaurant, had begun to feel fagged and listless and in need of a vacation.
And that morning she had decided to go away for a month to some quiet place in the mountains, and she was already consulting various folders and advertisements which she had accumulated since early spring, when the telephone in her bedroom rang.
She had never heard Clive’s voice so gay over the wire. She told him so; and she could hear his quick and rather excited laugh.
“Are you very busy to-day?” he asked.
“No; I’m going to close up shop for a month, Clive. I’m hot and tired and dying for a glimpse of something green. I was just looking over a lot of advertisements — cottages and hotels. Come up and help me.”
“I want you to spend the day with me in the country. Will you?”
“I’d love to. Where?”
“At Spring Pond.”
“Clive! Do you really want to go there?”
“Yes. As your guest.”
“What?”
“If you will invite me. Will you?”
“What do you mean? Have you bought the place for me?”
“I have the deed in my pocket, all ready to be transferred to you.”
“You darling! Clive, I am so excited—”
“So am I. Shall I come for you in my brand new car? I’ve invested in an inexpensive Stinger runabout. May I drive you down? It won’t take much longer than by train. And it will cool us off.”
“Come as soon as you can get here!” she cried, delighted. “This is going to be the happiest day of my entire life!”
And so it came about that Athalie in her pretty new gown and hat of lilac lingerie, followed by a maid bearing three suit-cases, hat-box, toilet satchel, and automobile coat, emerged from the main entrance of the building where Clive sat waiting in a smart Stinger runabout. When he saw her he sprang out and came forward, hat in hand.
“You darling,” she said in a low, happy voice. “You’ve made me happier than I ever dreamed of being. I don’t know what to say to you; I simply don’t know how to thank you for doing this wonderful thing for me.”
He, too, was happier than he had ever been in all his life; and so much in love that he found nothing to say for a moment save the few trite phrases in which a man in love says many commonplaces, all of which only mean, “I love you.”
“When he saw her he sprang out and came forward.”
Doubtless she understood the complicated code, for she laughed and blushed a trifle and looked around at her maid laden with luggage.
“Where can we put these, Clive?” she asked.
“What on earth is all that luggage?” he asked, surprised.
“I’m going to remain a few days,” she explained, “so I’ve brought a few things.”
“But do you imagine there is anything to eat or anywhere to lay your head in that tumble down old house?” he demanded, secretly enchanted with her rash enthusiasm.
“I propose to camp. I can buy milk, crackers, and sardines at Spring Pond village; also sufficient bathroom and bed linen. That is all I require to be perfectly comfortable.”
There was no rumble on the Stinger, only a baggage rack and boot. Here he secured, covered, and strapped Athalie’s impedimenta; the maid slipped on her travelling coat; she sprang lightly into the seat; and Clive went around and climbed in beside her, taking the wheel.
The journey downtown and across the Queensboro Bridge was the usual uncomfortable and exasperating progress familiar to all who pilot cars to Long Island. Brooklyn was negotiated prayerfully; they swung into the great turnpike, through the ugliest suburbs this humiliated world ever endured, on through the shabby, filthy, sordid environment of the gigantic Burrough, past ignoble villages, desolate wastes, networks of railway tracks where grade crossings menaced them, and on along the purlieus of suburban deserts until the flat green Long Island country spread away on either side dotted with woods and greenhouses and quaint farm-houses and old-time spires.
“It is pretty when you get here,” he said, “but it’s like climbing over a mile of garbage to get out of one’s front door. No European city would endure being isolated by such a desert of squalor and abominable desolation.”
But Athalie merely smiled. She had been far too excited to notice the familiar ugliness and filth of the dirty city’s soiled and ragged outskirts.
And now the car sped on amid the flat, endless acres of cultivated land, and already her dainty nose was sniffing familiar but half-forgotten odours — the faintest hint of ocean, the sun-warmed scent of freshly cut salt hay; perfumes from woodlands in heavy foliage, and the more homely smell from barn-yard and compost-heap; from the sunny, dusty village streets through which they rolled; from village lanes heavy with honeysuckle.
“I seem to be speeding back toward my childhood,” she said. “Every breath of this air, every breeze, every odour is making it more real to me.... I wonder whatever became of my ragged red hood and cloak. I can’t remember.”
“I’d like to have them,” he said. “I’d fold them and lay them away for—”
He checked himself, sobered, suddenly and painfully aware that the magic of the moment had opened for him an unreal vista where, in the false dawn, the phantom of Hope stood smiling. Her happy smile had altered, too; and her gloved hand stole out and rested on his own for a moment in silence. Neither said anything for a while, and yet the sky was so blue, the wind so soft and aromatic, and the sun’s splendour was turning the very earth to powdered gold. And maybe the gods would yet be kind. Maybe, one day, others, with Athalie’s hair and eyes, might smooth the faded scarlet hood and cloak with softly inquiring fingers.
He spoke almost harshly from his brief dream: “There is the Bay!”
But she had turned to look back at the quiet little cemetery already behind them, and a moment or two passed before she lifted her eyes and looked out across the familiar stretch of water. Azure and silver it glimmered there in the sun. Red-shouldered blackbirds hovered, fluttered, dropped back into the tall reeds; meadow larks whistled sweetly, persistently; a slow mouse-hawk sailed low over the fields, his broad wings tipped up like a Japanese kite, the silver full-moon flashing on his back as he swerved. And then the old tavern came into sight behind its new hedge of privet.
Athalie caught sight of it, — of the tall hedge, the new posts of stone through which a private road now curved into the grounds and around a circle before the porch; saw the new stone wall inclosing it ablaze with nasturtiums, the brilliant loveliness of the old and long neglected garden beyond; saw the ancient house in all its quaint and charming simplicity bereft of bow-window, spindle, and gingerbread fretwork, — saw the white front of it, the green shutters, the big, thick chimneys, the sunlight sparkling on small square panes, and on the glass of the sun parlour.
The girl was trembling when he stopped the car at the front door, sprang out, and aided her to descend.
A man
in overalls came up, diffidently, and touched his broad straw hat. To him Clive gave a low-voiced order or two, then stepped forward to where the girl was standing.
“It is too beautiful—” she began, but her voice failed, and he saw the sensitive lips tremulous in their silence and the eyes brilliant with the menace of tears.
He drew her arm through his and they went in, moving slowly and in silence from room to room. Only the almost convulsive pressure of her arm on his told him of a happiness too deep for expression.
On the landing above he offered her the key to her mother’s room.
“Nothing is changed there,” he said; and, fitting the key, unlocked the door, and turned away.
But the girl caught his hand in hers and drew him with her into the faded, shabby room where her mother’s chair stood in its accustomed place, and the faded hassock lay beside it.
“Sit here,” she said. And when he was seated she dropped on the hassock at his feet and laid her cheek on his knees.
The room was very still and sunny; her lover remained silent and unstirring; and the girl’s eyes wandered from carpet to ceiling and from wall to wall, resting on familiar objects; then, passing dreamily, remained fixed on space — sweet, brooding eyes, dim with the deepest emotion she had ever known.
A new, profound, and thrilling peace possessed her — a heavenly sense of tranquillity and security, as though, somehow, all problems had been solved for her and for him.
Presently in a low, hushed, happy voice she began to speak about her mother. Little unimportant, unconnected incidents came to her mind — brief moments, episodes as ephemeral as they had been insignificant.
Sitting on the faded hassock at his feet she lifted her head and rested both arms across his knees.
“It is all so perfect now,” she said,— “you here in mother’s room, and I at your feet: and the sunny world waiting for us outside. How mellow is this light! Always in the demi-dusk of this house there seemed to me to linger a golden tint — even on dark days — even at night — as though somewhere a ray of sun had been lost and had not entirely faded out.”
“It came from your own heart, Athalie — that wonderful and golden heart of yours where light and warmth can never die.... Dear, are you contented with what I have ventured to do?”
She looked silently into his eyes, then with a little sigh dropped her head on his knees again.
Far away somewhere in the depths of the house somebody was moving. And presently she asked him who it was.
“Connor, the man of all work. I sent him to Spring Pond village to buy bed linen and bath towels. I ventured to install a brass bed or two in case you had thought of coming here with your maid. You see,” he added, smiling, “it was fortunate that I did.”
“You are the most wonderful man in the world, Clive,” she murmured, her eyes fixed dreamily on his face. “Always you have been making life delightful for me; smoothing my path, helping me where the road is rough.”... She sighed: “Clive, you are very wonderful to me.”
Mrs. Jim Connor had come to help; and now, at high noon, she sought them where they were standing in the garden, — Athalie in ecstasy before the scented thickets of old-fashioned rockets massed in a long, broad border against a background of trees.
So they went in to luncheon, which was more of a dinner; and Mrs. Connor served them with apology, bustle, and not too garrulously for the humour they were in.
High spirits had returned to them when they stepped out of doors; and they came back to the house for luncheon in the gayest of humour, Athalie chattering away blithe as a linnet in a thorn bush, and Clive not a whit more reticent.
“Hafiz is going to adore this!” exclaimed the girl. “My angel pussy! — why was I mean enough to leave you in the city!... I’ll have a dog, too — a soft, roly-poly puppy, who shall grow up with a wholesome respect for Hafiz. And, Clive! I shall have a nice fat horse, a safe and sane old Dobbin — so I can poke about the countryside at my leisure, through byways and lanes and disused roads.”
“You need a car, too.”
“No, no, I really don’t. Anyway,” she said airily, “your car is sufficient, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” he smiled.
“I think so, too. I shall not require or desire a car unless you also are to be in it. But I’d love to possess a Dobbin and a double buckboard. Also I shall, in due time, purchase a sail-boat—” She checked herself, laughed at the sudden memory, and said with delightful malice: “I suppose you have not yet learned to sail a boat, have you?”
He laughed, too: “How you scorned me for my ignorance, didn’t you? Oh, but I’ve learned a great many things since those days, Athalie.”
“To sail a boat, too?”
“Oh, yes. I had to learn. There’s a lot of water in the world; and I’ve been very far afield.”
“I know,” she said. There was a subtle sympathy in her voice, — an exquisite recognition of the lonely years which now seemed to lie far, far behind them both.
She glanced down at her fresh plate which Mrs. Connor had just placed before her.
“Clive!” she exclaimed, enchanted, “do you see! Peach turnovers!”
“Certainly. Do you suppose this housewarming could be a proper one without peach turnovers?” And to Mrs. Connor he said: “That is all, thank you. Miss Greensleeve and I will eat our turnovers by the stove in the sun-parlour.”
And there they ate their peach turnovers, seated on the old-time rush-bottomed chairs beside the stove — just as they had sat so many years ago when Athalie was a child of twelve and wore a ragged cloak and hood of red.
Sometimes, leisurely consuming her pastry, she glanced demurely at her lover, sometimes her blue eyes wandered to the sunny picture outside where roses grew and honeysuckle trailed and the blessed green grass enchanted the tired eyes of those who dwelt in the monstrous and arid city.
Presently she went away to the room he had prepared for her; and he lay back lazily in his chair and lighted a cigarette, and watched the thin spirals of smoke mounting through the sunshine. When she returned to him she was clad in white from crown to toe, and he told her she was enchanting, which made her eyes sparkle and the dimples come.
“Mrs. Connor is going to remain and help me,” she said. “All my things are unpacked, and the bed is made very nicely, and it is all going to be too heavenly for words. Oh, I wish you could stay!”
“To-night?”
“Yes. But I suppose it would ruin us if anybody knew.”
He said nothing as they walked back into the main hallway.
“What a charming old building it is!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it odd that I never before appreciated the house from an esthetic angle? I don’t suppose you’d call this architecture, but whatever else it may be it certainly is dignified. I adore the simplicity of the rooms; don’t you? I shall have some pretty silk curtains made; and, in the bedrooms, chintz. And maybe you will help me hunt for furniture and rugs. Will you, dear?”
“We’ll find some old mahogany for this floor and white enamel for the bedrooms if you like. What do you say?”
“Enchanting! I adore antique mahogany! You know how crazy I am about the furniture of bygone days. I shall squander every penny on things Chippendale and Sheraton and Hepplewhite. Oh, it is going to be a darling house and I’m the happiest girl in the world. And you have made me so! — dearest of men!”
She caught his hand to her lips as he bent to kiss hers, and their faces came together in a swift and clinging embrace. Which left her flushed and wordless for the moment, and disposed to hang her head as she walked slowly beside him to the front door.
Out in the sunshine, however, her self-possession returned in a pretty exclamation of delight; and she called his attention to a tiny rainbow formed in the spray of the garden hose where Connor was watering the grass.
“Symbol of hope for us,” he said under his breath.
She nodded, and stood inhaling the fragrance of the garden.
“I know a path — if it still exists — where I used to go as a child. Would you care to follow it with me?”
So they walked down to the causeway bridge spanning the outlet to Spring Pond, turned to the right amid a tangle of milk-weed in heavy bloom, and grapevines hanging in festoons from rock and sapling.
The path had not changed; it wound along the wooded shore of the pond, then sloped upward and came out into a grassy upland, where it followed the woods’ edge under the cool shadow of the trees.
And as they walked she told him of her childish journeys along this path until it reached the wooded and pebbly height of land beyond, which is one of the vertebræ in the backbone of Long Island.
To reach that ridge was her ultimate ambition in those youthful days; and when on one afternoon of reckless daring she had attained it, and far to the northward she saw the waters of the great Sound sparkling in the sun, she had felt like Balboa in sight of the Pacific, awed to the point of prayer by her own miraculous achievement.
Where the path re-entered the woods, far down the slope, they could hear the waters of Spring Brook flowing; and presently they could see the clear glint of the stream; and she told him tales of alder-poles and home-made hooks, and of dusky troutlings that haunted the woodland pools far in the dusk of leafy and mysterious depths.
On the brink of the slope, but firmly imbedded, there had been a big mossy log. She discovered it presently, and drew him down to a seat beside her, taking possession of one of his arms and drawing it closely under her own. Then she crossed one knee over the other and looked out into the magic half-light of a woodland which, to her childish eyes, had once seemed a vast and depthless forest. A bar of sunlight fell across her slim shoe and ankle clothed in white, and across the log, making the moss greener than emeralds.
From far below came pleasantly the noise of the brook; overhead leaves stirred and whispered in the breezes; shadows moved; sun-spots waxed and waned on tree-trunk and leaf and on the brown ground under foot. A scarlet-banded butterfly — he they call the Red Admiral — flitted persistently about an oak tree where the stain of sap darkened the bark.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 797
