Part 3

“Then I won’t tell you,” she said soothingly.

“But――but――they’re not wrong, are they?”

“‘Where ignorance is bliss――――’” she murmured.

“But I’d rather know! Tell me the worst, please!”

She shook her head smilingly.

“Good-bye,” she said.

“Aren’t you going to let me see you again?” he asked dolefully. Again she shook her head.

“I have had the offer of a new pool,” she said, “one with all modern improvements, and I think I shall move.”

“But――now, look here, it isn’t fair! What am I to do? It’s evident you’ve never spent a holiday in Riverdell, or else you’d appreciate my plight. There’s nothing to do save paddle around on that idiotic little river. And every time I’m afraid the water will leak out when I’m not watching it and leave me high and dry. If only for charity, please let me come here and see you now and then――just for a moment! I’ll be very good, really; I’ll even agree to stay in the canoe and frizzle before your eyes!”

“You speak,” she answered perplexedly, “as though I had invited you to come to Riverdell, or at least as though I were to blame for your remaining here!”

He resisted the words that sprang to his lips.

“I beg your pardon then. I wouldn’t for the world imply anything so absolutely criminal. But I am here and I am bored; and surely you haven’t so many excitements, so many engagements in the mornings but that you can spend a few moments communing with nature here at the pool? Of course, I don’t recommend myself as an excitement; perhaps I’m more of a narcotic; but I’ll do anything in my power to amuse you! I’ll――I’ll even tell you fairy stories or sing to you; and I’ve never done either in my life!”

“That is indeed an inducement then,” she laughed. “But――good-bye.”

“You won’t?”

“Do you think it likely?” she asked a trifle haughtily.

“Not when you look like that,” he answered dismally.

“Good-bye,” she said again, moving away.

“Good morning,” he answered. His eyes were on the ground where she had been sitting. He took a step forward. From there he watched her pass up the slope under the trees. At the last she turned back and looked regretfully at the pool shimmering in the noontide heat.

“I shall be sorry to leave it,” she said softly, yet distinctly. “Perhaps――I shall change my mind.”

Then she went on, passing from shadow to sunlight, until the trees hid her. When she was quite out of sight Ethan lighted a cigarette, smiling the while. Then he flicked aside the charred match, lifted his left foot, stooped and picked up a little white wad which, as he gently shook it out, became a dainty white handkerchief. He looked at it, held it to his nose, touched it to his lips, folded it carefully and clumsily and placed it in his pocket. Then he turned toward the pool and the canoe.

“She’s a coquette,” he muttered, “an arrant coquette. But――but she’s simply――ripping!”

VI.

Ethan finished his second cigarette and tossed it hissing into the pool. The nearest swan immediately paddled over to investigate. Ethan sighed exasperatedly.

“Go ahead, then, you old idiot!” he muttered. “You won’t like it any better than you liked the last one; they’re out of the same box; but try it if you want to. There, I told you so! Oh, that’s it; blame me now! Blessed if you aren’t almost human!”

He looked for the twentieth time toward where the corner of the white pergola gleamed through the trees and for the twentieth time turned his gaze disappointedly away again. He had been there almost three-quarters of an hour, and he wasn’t going to stay another minute! If she didn’t want to come, all right! Only she wouldn’t get her handkerchief if she didn’t! He had begun to doubt this morning whether she had dropped that article on purpose, as he had suspected yesterday. If it had been an accident she had probably returned already and searched for it, and he could not base his hopes of seeing her on the score of the handkerchief. It was quite evident, anyhow, that she wasn’t coming. That farewell remark of hers which he had translated to his own liking meant nothing, after all. He would throw his things into his bag and go on to Stillhaven after dinner. He had been a comical ass to fool around here like this tagging after a girl who didn’t want to be bothered with him and risking dyspepsia at the Inn! And what the deuce was he thinking about women for, anyway? Hadn’t he taken a solemn vow on the occasion of his first, last and only affair to leave them severely alone? He grinned reminiscently.

That had been a desperate affair, brief and tragic. It had occurred in his freshman year. _She_ was a “saleslady” in a florist’s shop on the Avenue. She had cheeks like one of the bridesmaid roses she sold, a tip-tilted nose, sparkling gray eyes and a mass of black hair which stood up from her forehead in a mighty rolling billow and smelled headily of violet perfume when she pinned a carnation to his coat. It had been love at first sight with Ethan, and he had seldom appeared in public without a flower in his button-hole. He remembered with something between a shudder and a sigh the exaltation of pride and joy with which he had accompanied her to the theatre that first time! When he had returned from his Christmas vacation to find her engaged to the red-haired drug-clerk on the next corner he had promptly become a confirmed misogynist. During the seven years which had elapsed between that time and this he had relented somewhat, had gone through more than one mild flirtation and had kept his heart. There had been so many, many other things to occupy him that love had remained unconsidered. And now, what was he doing here, sitting in a canoe in a lily pond when he ought of right to be at Stillhaven helping Vincent sail the “Sea Lark” in the club races? Wasn’t he making a fool of himself again? Then something white moved toward him between the trees and the question went unanswered.

“I think I must have lost a handkerchief here yesterday,” she announced by way of greeting and explanation.

“A handkerchief?” he cried. “Let me help you search.”

“Oh, don’t bother! It doesn’t matter, of course, only――I thought that if it was here I’d get it.”

But Ethan was already out of the canoe.

“Er――what was it like?” he asked.

“Rather plain, I think; just a narrow lace edge.”

They looked diligently over the grass. Plainly it was not there. She raised her head, brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead and laughed.

“I’m always losing them,” she said apologetically.

“Perhaps,” he suggested, “it might be well to offer a reward.”

“A splendid idea!” she cried. “We’ll post it on this tree here. Have you a piece of paper? And a pencil?”

“Both.” He tore the front from an envelope and handed her his pencil. She accepted them and set herself down on the grass.

“Oh, dear, what shall I write on? The canoe paddle? Thanks. Now let me see. What shall I say?”

“You must start by writing ‘Lost!’ in big letters at the top. That’s it.” Ethan’s rôle of adviser carried delicious privileges. It allowed him to kneel quite close behind her and observe the pink lobe of one small ear from a position of disquieting proximity.

“And then what?”

“I beg your pardon!” he said, with a start. “Why, then――er――let me see. ‘Lost’――――”

“I have that,” she said demurely.

“A small handkerchief belonging――――”

“How did you know it was small?” she asked with smiling interest.

“They always are,” he answered. “Where was I?”

“‘A small handkerchief belonging’――――”

“That doesn’t sound quite shipshape. Let’s try again. ‘Lost, a small lady’s’――――”

They laughed together as though it was a most novel and excellent joke.

“I don’t care to advertise my smallness,” she objected.

“Well, once more now. ‘Lost, a small handkerchief with a funny little lace border and an embroidered D in the left-hand lower corner. Finder――――’”

“An embroidered D?” she asked puzzledly.

“Wasn’t it a D?”

“Perhaps it was,” she allowed. She leaned a little farther forward, for the brief glance she had cast toward him had revealed the fact that his head was startlingly near. “And――and the reward?” she asked a trifle constrainedly.

“Finder may keep same for his honesty!”

“But――but that’s ridiculous!” she cried. “What’s the use of advertising at all?”

“To save the finder from committing theft,” he answered soberly. “Think of his conscience!”

“How do you know it’s a ‘him’?” she asked carelessly.

“I used the masculine gender merely in a――er――general way.”

“Oh!”

“Yes. Have you written that?”

“No, what’s the good of it? If the finder is dishonest enough to keep it he may look after his own conscience!”

“That’s unchristian,” he answered sadly.

“I’ll do this, though,” she said. “If the finder will produce it I will allow him to keep it on one condition.”

“And that?” he asked suspiciously.

“If there is a D on it he may have it. Otherwise――――”

The finder produced it, unfolded it and looked at the “left-hand lower corner.”

“Well?” she asked, smilingly. He frowned.

“It――it looks more like an H,” he answered.

“It is an H! Now may I have it?”

“But it ought to be a D,” he said. “H stands neither for Devereux, Laura, nor Clytie.”

“I never said it did!”

“This is quite plainly not your property,” he went on, refolding it. “Being unable to find the owner, I shall retain possession of it.”

“But it’s mine!” she cried.

“Yours? What does the H stand for, then?”

She hesitated and flushed.

“I never said my name was Laura Devereux,” she murmured.

“No, but you see I happen to know that it is.” He replaced the handkerchief in his pocket. Then he reached forward and took the paper and envelope from her lap. “I shall write an advertisement myself,” he said.

She watched him while he did so, biting her lip in smiling vexation. When it was done he passed the composition across to her.

“FOUND!”

“A lady’s lace-bordered handkerchief bearing the initial H in one corner. Owner may recover same by proving ownership and rewarding finder. Apply to Vertumnus, care Clytie, Lotus Pool, Arcadia, between ten and twelve.”

“What’s the reward?” she asked. He shook his head thoughtfully.

“I haven’t decided yet. Something――rather nice, I fancy.”

A faint flush crept into her cheeks and she turned her gaze toward the pool.

“It is much cooler to-day,” she said.

“Yes, last night’s thunder-storm cleared the air,” he replied, in a similar conversational tone. She glanced at the tiny watch hanging at her belt. Then she murmured something and sprang lightly to her feet before Ethan could go to her assistance.

“You are not going?” he asked in dismay.

She nodded gravely.

“But it’s quite early!”

“I don’t think it right to associate with dishonesty,” she answered severely. “You know very well that that handkerchief is mine!”

“Yes, I do,” he answered. “That is, I saw you drop it yesterday. Probably it belongs really to someone else. Unless――” he smiled――“unless you bought it at a bargain sale? In which case the initial didn’t really matter, I suppose.”

“Will you give it to me?” she asked unsmilingly.

“But it’s such a little thing!” he pleaded earnestly. “You have so many more that surely the loss of this one won’t inconvenience you. And I――I’ve taken a fancy to it.”

“That’s a convenient excuse for theft!” she answered.

“It’s the only one I have to offer,” he replied humbly.

“But――it’s so absurd!” she cried impatiently. “What can you want with it?”

He was silent a moment. She glanced furtively at his face and then moved a few steps toward the house.

“I wonder if you really want me to tell you?” he mused.

“Tell me what?” she asked uneasily.

“Why I want to keep it.”

“I don’t think I am――especially interested,” she answered coldly. “Are you going to return it?”

“Maybe; in a moment. You don’t want to hear the reason?”

“I――Oh, well, what is the reason?” she asked impatiently.

“A very simple one. As a handkerchief merely it doesn’t attract me especially. I have seen more beautiful ones, I think――――”

“Well!” she gasped.

“My desire to keep it arises from the simple fact that it is yours, Clytie.”

She strove to meet his gaze with one exhibiting the proper amount of haughty resentment. But the attempt was a failure. After the first glance her eyes fell, the blood crept into her face and she turned quickly away.

“May I keep it, please?” he asked softly.

She went swiftly up the little slope under the trees.

“Clytie!” he called. She paused, without turning, to listen.

“May I keep it?”

Clytie dropped her head and passed quickly from sight.

VII.

Ethan stretched his arms, chastely clad in striped blue and white madras, yawned expansively, kicked his legs loose from the sheet in which they were entangled, and awoke; awoke to find the sunlight dancing across the room and making radiant blurs of his brushes on the old mahogany bureau; awoke to find a robin fervently launching his brief ballad in through the window from the branches just outside; awoke to find himself in a new and very wonderful world, a world populated by a girl with violet eyes, a reiterating robin, and himself!

He was in love!

Knowledge of the fact came to him with a heart-clutching abruptness. He had gone to sleep last night without premonition; he awoke now to a startling illumination of mind. Whence had the tidings come? From the dancing sunlight streaming across the old boards? From the scented breeze that stirred the leaves out there? From the perfervid gossip of the swelling throat? Who could tell? And yet there it was, that knowledge, as real as the green summer earth awaiting him, as much a part of his life as the breath he drew!

He lay for a long while with his hands clasped under his head and gazed out into the beautiful green and golden and azure world, with a happy smile on his face, thinking new and ineffable thoughts. It is a glorious thing to find oneself really, wholly in love for the first time, glorious, wonderful, absorbing....

The robin ceased his pæan and was silent, with his head cocked attentively. Perhaps his ears were better than yours or mine and he heard a song sweeter and more triumphant than any of his own, for after a moment of listening he spread his wings and floated down across sunlit spaces to the orchard.

I wonder if the safety razor was not invented for the man in love. Certain it is that Ethan could never have used any other sort this morning. At times, driven by a mad impatience to be out and away, he shaved frantically, as though he feared that Nature would roll up her landscape and be gone ere he could reach it; at times he stood motionless, gazing unseeingly at the tip of his nose reflected in the old mirror. Now he whistled blithely, only to stop in the middle of a note and relapse into a silent gravity. In short, he exhibited all the symptoms, mental and physical, usually accompanying his disease; temperature increased, pulse at once full and fluttering, respiration erratic, pupils of the eyes slightly dilated, mind apparently affected.

He dressed with unusual care, bewailing the fact that his choice of garments was limited to two suits. Neither blue serge nor gray homespun seemed fitted for the occasion; his heart hankered after purple and fine linen. But at last he was dressed and was hurrying down the creaking staircase to a late breakfast. Forty minutes later he was floating amidst the lilies of Arcady.

* * * * *

That line of stars, dear reader, is the typographic equivalent of three wasted hours in the life of Ethan Parmley,――three empty unhappy hours spent in and about a silly old puddle smelling like an apothecary shop (I am using his own language now) with only a trio of idiotic swans to talk to. The Nymph of the Violet Eyes came not.

And yet he saw her that day, after all; caught a fleeting glimpse of her that at once assuaged and sharpened his hunger. He was on the porch of the Inn after dinner smoking, morosely, when a smart trap swept by from the direction of The Larches. It contained a coachman and two ladies. One of the ladies had violet eyes, though, as her head was turned away from him and partly hidden by a white parasol, he could not have proved it at the moment. As for the other, he couldn’t have said whether she was young or old, fair or dark. The pair of glistening, well-groomed bays left Ethan scant time for observation. In a twinkling the carriage and its precious burden were gone. And although he never left the porch for more than a minute at a time all the rest of that interminable summer afternoon he found no reward. There were other roads leading to The Larches.

The evening mail brought him a note from Vincent Graves:

“Farrell showed up here Monday with the car and your note. I tried to find out from him what you were up to, but he either didn’t know or exercised a discretion I never credited him with. I hope it is nothing more than sunstroke; folks have been known to recover from that with their minds almost as good as new. Anyhow, I am coming over in a few days to see for myself. I know all about mythology――accent on the _myth_. But look here, no poaching on my preserves! I finished third yesterday on time-allowance; would have done better if I hadn’t carried away my jib at the outer mark. No wind to speak of. Can’t you come on for Saturday’s race? We’ve had the car out once or twice. There’s something wrong with it. Farrell has it in hospital to-day. My compliments to her, but tell her I need you here.

“Yours,

“_Vincent_.”

After supper Ethan drew a chair to the open window of his room, set the lamp precariously on the bureau where the light would fall upon the portfolio in his lap, and replied to Vincent:

“My dear Vincent (he wrote), life moves sweetly in Arcadia. Clytie, she who beside her blossom-starred pool has so long gazed, enamored, upon the fiery Apollo, now hearkens to the wooing tones of green-garlanded Vertumnus. No more she fills the leafy hollow with her tears and soft reproaches, but reclined where shading branches defy the sun god’s fiercest rays, she smiles betimes upon Vertumnus. And he, bathing his heart in the warm blue pools of her eyes, forgets and forswears the too-coy Pomona. So, friend, runs the drama of Clytie the dawn-eyed Nymph of the Lotus Pool; of Apollo, radiant and unapproachable Lord of the Sun; and of Vertumnus, humble and enamored God of the Seasons. Friend, for love of me, petition fair Venus to aid my cause!

“And now Jove be with you! The night wind steals sweetly through Arcadia’s moonlit glades and bears to my nostrils the heart-stirring fragrance of lily and of lotus. It is Clytie’s breath upon my cheek. Ah, my friend, I weep for you that you can never know the love of a god for a nymph in Arcady! May Somnus, gentlest of the gods, send thee sweet dreams. Farewell.

“VERTUMNUS.”

“And now, having read this over, I see clearly that it is beyond your understanding, my friend, and so it may be that it will never reach your eyes.”

It never did.

VIII.

It sometimes rains even in Arcady.

When Ethan arose the next morning he found that Apollo was taking a rest and that Jupiter was having things all his own way. At the foot of the orchard the little river was foaming and boiling with puny ferocity. The grass was beaten and drenched and the foliage was adrip. But in the shelter of the elm outside the window a robin chirped cheerfully, thinking doubtless of gustatory joys to come.

“Well, you’re taking it philosophically, my friend,” muttered Ethan, “and I might as well follow your example, even though I have a soul above fat worms. It’s got to stop sometime, and I might as well make the best of it meanwhile. Still,” he added ruefully, “a whole day in this ramshackle old ark doesn’t appeal to me much.”

He dressed leisurely, ate breakfast slowly, and afterward sought to kill time with a book by a window in the tap-room. The volume, a paper-clad novel left by some former guest, answered well enough. It is doubtful if he could have given undivided attention to the most engrossing story ever written. The rain, streaking down the tiny panes, caught strange hues from the old glass and the light from the crackling logs in the fire-place. Sometimes they were green like tender new apple leaves in May, sometimes blue like rain-drenched violets, like――no, not like but, rather, reminiscent of, certain eyes! Ah, there was food for thought! The novel was turned face-downward on his knee, the cigarette drooped thoughtfully from the corner of his mouth and his hands went deep into his pockets. Those eyes! Rain-drenched violets? By jove, yes! No simile, no comparison could be better! Rain-drenched violets touched by the yellow light of the sun stealing back through gray clouds! Rather an elaborate description, he thought with a smile at his sentimentalism. The smile deepened as he recalled the infinitesimal blue circle under the left eye, a little blue vein showing with charming distinctness against the warm pallor of the skin like a vein in soft-toned marble. It was a little thing to recall, little in all ways, but it seemed to him a veritable triumph of the memory! By half closing his eyes he could almost see it.

_Slam!_

The paper-covered novel fell to the floor and lay fluttering its leaves in helpless appeal. He rescued it and sought his place again, smiling with real amusement over his foolishness.

“I’m certainly behaving like an idiot,” he thought. “I never knew being in love was so――so deuced unsettling. First thing I know, if I don’t keep a pretty steady hand on the reins, I’ll be writing poetry or roaming around the place cutting hearts and initials in the tree-trunks! H’m; let me see now; where was I? Ah, here we have it!

“‘Garrison laid the diamond trinket gently back on the desk and puffed slowly at his cigar. Presently he turned with disconcerting abruptness to Mrs. Staniford. “There is no possibility of mistake?” he asked. “None,” was the firm reply. “You could swear to the identity of this jewel in court?” “Yes.” Garrison whipped a small round, black object from his pocket and settled it against his eye. Then he took up the trinket again and bent over it closely. “My dear madam,” he said softly, “if you did that you would be making a grave mistake.” “What do you mean?” she cried fiercely. “I mean,” was the smiling response, “that this is not one of your jewels,――unless――――” “Well?” she prompted impatiently. “Unless, my dear madam, you wear paste!” A sharp involuntary exclamation of surprise startled them. They turned quickly. Lord Burslem was crossing the library with white, set face.’

“Pshaw! I knew all along the things were paste,” sighed Ethan. “Singleton is Mrs. Staniford’s son by a former marriage and she has pinched the stones and given them to him to get him out of a scrape, something to do with that lachrymose Miss Deene, maybe; at least, something she knows about. Laurence is as innocent as the untrodden snow, or whatever the correct simile is, and if I keep on to the last chapter I’ll find out that fact. But I prefer to believe him guilty. He wore a gardenia in his buttonhole, and that settles it. I can’t stand for a man who wears gardenias. I insist that he is guilty.”

He tossed the book half-way across the room, arose, stretched his long arms above his head and stared out of the window. The rain was falling straight down from the dark sky in a manner that would doubtless have pleased Isaac Newton greatly, showing as it did so perfectly the attraction of gravitation. The drops were of immense size, and when one struck the window pane it spread itself out into a very pool before it trickled down to the sash. Ethan watched for awhile, then yawned, glanced at his watch and lounged in to dinner.