Part 15

"Day after day," said Mrs. Bobby, "we have talked it over--he walking up and down, restless, wild; I trying to soothe him, urging him to be patient--Sometimes he thinks that you are revenging yourself in this way for his former neglect, that it is a little scheme to pay him back--the idea drives him frantic, makes him furious with himself, yet he is always encouraged when he thinks of it. And then again--he thinks that you don't care for him, that you never will, that there is some one else.... Ah, my dear, if you really do care, you are cruel, unpardonably cruel, to torment him like this."

Again she paused. Elizabeth, with a quick, impatient movement, dragged her hand away from her grasp, and began to pace up and down, gasping as if for breath. "Cruel," she cried out, "cruel! And you think it gives me pleasure--to torment him!"

"If it doesn't," said Mrs. Bobby, following her with her eyes and speaking with some coldness, "I confess I am at a loss to account for your behavior."

Elizabeth stopped suddenly and bending down, almost buried her face in the roses, whose fragrance she inhaled.

"There never was a man," said Mrs. Bobby, "who loved a woman more than he loves you, Elizabeth. And there isn't a man, who, I believe, deserves a woman better."

"Deserves her!" murmured Elizabeth, "deserves _me_! Oh, good Heavens!" The exclamation was barely audible, and apparently addressed only to the roses.

"I said to him yesterday," said Mrs. Bobby, "'You'll come up Saturday, of course?' But--he's proud now and hurt, Elizabeth--he said: 'I won't come, I won't force myself upon her without--her knowledge and consent. If she knows, if she's willing, why, then, I'll come--not otherwise.'"

There was a pause. Elizabeth turned presently a face which seemed to reflect the glowing color of the roses over which she had bent. "What do you--want me to do, Eleanor?" she asked, softly.

"Tell me what I shall say," said Mrs. Bobby "in the letter which I must write when I get home." She went over to Elizabeth and put her hand on her arm. "Shall he come, or shall he not? It rests with you."

Elizabeth's eyes were again averted. "It isn't for me, Eleanor," she murmured, "to drive your guests away, if--if they really want to come."

And so Mrs. Bobby, when she got home, wrote her letter. It consisted of only one word.

The Saturday following was extremely warm. The Rector and his wife came to take tea at the Homestead, and they all sat afterwards in the dimly-lighted drawing-room. Elizabeth wandered to the long French window, and stood looking out upon the moon-lit lawn. "It's so warm that I think I shall go for a walk," she said, half aloud, but no one heard her. The Rector was telling Miss Cornelia about the death of an old clergyman in Cranston, who had lived alone with two old servants. Elizabeth stood and listened for a moment to the deep, impressive tones which mingled strangely with the comfortable monotone which the Rector's wife was addressing to Miss Joanna.

"And so," she was saying "you see I have had blue put on it again, being more summery"--

"I feel particularly sorry," the Rector's voice broke in, "for the old servants. They were quite prostrated, I fear, poor things! They too have not long to live."

"Black satin at four dollars a yard," said his wife, "is sure to last forever."

"He was an excellent man," said the Rector. "His death is a great loss." But here Elizabeth, weary of listening, softly turned the knob of the window and stepped out on the lawn.

What a beautiful night it was outside! The long twilight was fading into dusk, but the moon silvered the shadows that the trees cast across the road. Elizabeth walked to the gate and stood leaning against it. In the distance she heard distinctly the sound of a horse's hoofs. It grew nearer and nearer, and in a few moments a man on horseback was beside her, and drew his rein abruptly before this figure in white, which stood like an apparition in his path.

"Elizabeth," he said. "Elizabeth, is it you?"

"Did you think it was my ghost?" she asked, with a soft laugh. Her white gown shimmered in the moonlight, her hair framed in her face with a vivid halo, her eyes shone like stars. Gerard sprang from his horse.

"Elizabeth," he said "were you waiting for me?"

"Yes," she answered, "I was waiting for you."

And the next moment he had her in his arms, and she had forgotten all other thoughts, all other claims, beneath the fervor of his kisses.

_Chapter XXVI_

The summer passed for an eventful one at Bassett Mills, being marked by at least two subjects of conversation; the one the engagement of Elizabeth Van Vorst of the Homestead "that girl of Malvina Jones," to a gentleman from town, who was reported to be "rolling in wealth;" the second, the illness of Amanda Jones, of that fashionable disease called nervous prostration, which no other girl at Bassett Mills but Amanda, who had always given herself airs, would have had the time or the money to indulge in. She had been taken ill while visiting her relations in New York, and her mother had gone up to nurse her, and announced on her return that Amanda was "that nervous" the doctor--"the best that could be had," as she observed with pride, had recommended complete rest, and sending her to a sanitarium for a few months.

"But there really ain't much the matter with her," Amanda's mother explained rather tartly to Elizabeth, who inquired for particulars as to her cousin's illness. "She has fits of crying, and then of sitting still and staring straight before her, like as if she was in a trance, and then she'll get up, and walk up and down the room for hours, and sometimes she'll notice you, and sometimes she won't--but dear me, it's all nonsense, I say. If she had some hard work to do, it would be better for her--but the doctor didn't seem to think so, and so I let her go to the sanitarium. No one shall say that I grudge the expense, as, thank Heaven! I don't have to, though there ain't another person at The Mills that wouldn't."

"I'm sure I hope it will do her good," Elizabeth said, kindly. She felt so glad to have Amanda, whatever the reason, away from Bassett Mills that she was conscious of a sudden pang of remorse, which increased when she received a letter from her cousin, congratulating her upon her engagement. It was a perfectly rational letter, with only slight references to her illness, and none at all to that unpleasant last interview in town; and Elizabeth answered the congratulations in the same amicable spirit in which they were offered, reflecting that, after all, much of Amanda's peculiarity must be excused on the ground of her persistent ill-health. And yet, as she sealed and directed her own letter, she breathed again a fervent thanksgiving that Amanda was safely out of the way.

There was another person for whose absence just then she felt devoutly thankful. When her engagement was announced, early in July--against her own wishes and in deference to Gerard's--she had received a terrible letter from Halleck, denouncing her perfidy, and threatening to come up at once. She had answered it as best she could, imploring his silence, and enclosing a sum of money which she borrowed from her aunts, on the plea of urgent bills--far from mythical, unfortunately, but which remained unpaid. Whether or no Paul granted her request, he pocketed the money, and she next heard of him as having gone abroad for the summer. The piece of news, casually mentioned one day in the course of conversation, thrilled her with a sense of overpowering relief, a suggestion, against which she struggled in vain, of possible accidents, of all the things that might reasonably happen to those who travel by sea or land. Elizabeth breathed a devout wish--it might almost be called a prayer--that this particular traveler might never return.

Meanwhile, the summer passed; a cool, delightful summer, rich with a succession of fragrant, sunshiny days and long, balmy evenings; and signalized by what for the Neighborhood was an unusual amount of gaiety. Several entertainments were given in honor of Elizabeth's engagement, among others a large dinner at the Van Antwerps'. And for this Elizabeth wore--it was Gerard's fancy--the same white gown in which he had first seen her, which he vowed that he cared for more than all her other gowns put together. And though she had pouted a little and declared that the others were far more smart, she yielded to his wishes in this, as she did in most things. Yet during the evening she noticed now and again his eyes fixed upon her with an odd, doubtful expression, as one who searches his memory for the details of a likeness, and finds inexplicably something lacking.

"I know what it is," he announced, abruptly, when they had wandered after dinner for a little while into the conservatory. "I was wondering what it was I missed, and now I know. You haven't got on your pearls. You wore them that night--in fact, I never saw you in full dress without them."

She flushed beneath his wondering gaze, reflecting how constantly he had observed her, wishing--almost--that he had not observed her quite so much.

"Did you forget them?" he asked smiling, as she made no response, but merely put up her hand to her white neck, as if just reminded of the fact that it was unadorned.

She plucked a rose from a plant near by, and began, nonchalantly, to pull it to pieces.

"Oh, I--I didn't feel in the mood to put them on," she said carelessly. "I--somehow I think I shall _not_ be in the mood to wear them again for a long while."

He was watching her lazily, an amused smile gleaming in the depths of his dark eyes. "What an odd, capricious child you are!" he said. "You're all made up of moods. I never know what to expect next."

She was picking the rose to pieces very deliberately, petal by petal, her eyes cast down. "Yes, I'm all made up of moods," she echoed, softly. "You must never be surprised at anything I do or say."

"I'm not," he returned, smiling. "And yet," he went on, after a moment, "I confess I'm a little surprised--and disappointed at this last one. I was thinking, to tell the truth, as I had an idea you valued those pearls particularly, of asking you to let me have them, so that I could get you another string to match them exactly."

The last petal of the rose fell from Elizabeth's hand, she stared up at Gerard with an odd, frightened expression. "Don't," she broke out, harshly. "I--I hate pearls." Then with a sudden change, as she saw the absolute bewilderment in his face, she laid her hand gently on his arm. "Dear," she said, very sweetly, "you must have patience with my moods. I've got an idea, just now, that pearls are unlucky. It's very silly, I know, but--don't argue with me. Bear with me, Julian, let me have my own way--a little."

They were alone in the conservatory. He put his arm around her and pressed his lips to hers. "A little," he murmured. "Have your own way--a little! Didn't I tell you, my darling, that you should have your own way in everything?"

She seemed to shrink away with an involuntary shiver at the words. "Ah, but I don't want it," she protested. "It's the last thing I want. If"--she freed herself from his hold and stood looking him, very sweetly and steadily, in the face--"if we are married, Julian"--

"_If!_" he echoed, reproachfully.

"It's always safer to say 'if'" she said.

"Ah, but that's a suggestion I won't tolerate," he declared, firmly. "I'll have my own way in that, if in nothing else. But, _when_ we are married, Elizabeth"--he paused.

"When we are married, then,"--she ceded the point resignedly, blushing rosy red--"when we are married, Julian, it must be your way, not mine. Yours is far better, wiser--yes"--she stopped his protest with an imperious gesture--"I feel it, even though I try sometimes to dispute it. I shall never do that--later. I shall try, with all the strength I have, to be more worthy of your love. But now--just now, Julian"--she looked at him anxiously, and a note of appeal crept into her voice--"if I seem odd, wilful, don't blame me, don't--doubt me"--

"Doubt you?" He took her hand and raised it reverently to his lips. "I shall never doubt you--again, my darling, no matter what you do or say."

There was the ring of absolute confidence in his voice. Yet it might have been that which made her shiver and shrink away, almost as if he had struck her a blow.

"I--I think we had better go back to the others," she announced, abruptly, in a moment, and her intonation was quick and sharp, almost as if she were frightened and trying to escape from some threatened danger. "It"--she smiled uncertainly--"it's not quite good form, I think, for us to wander off like this."

"Hang good form!" said Gerard, but still he followed her back resignedly to the other room, and she gave, as they reached the lights and the people, a soft sigh of relief, which fortunately he did not hear. Yet he noticed that for the rest of the evening she was paler than she had been at first.

This pallor increased when Mrs. Bobby, too, voiced the question which had been perplexing her all the evening, as to why she did not wear the pearls. Elizabeth did not mention her moods--it is evident that women cannot be put off, in such important questions as that of jewelry, with the vague answers that might satisfy a man. She said that the string had broken, and she had sent them to town to be re-strung. Her aunts knew that they had been there for that purpose since early spring, and they could not understand why she did not send for them, since other things had been left at the same jeweler's--notably that little jeweled watch, which they had heard of, but never seen. It was odd that Elizabeth should have lost, to so large an extent, her taste for pretty things.

Gerard, too, noticed this, but he would not ask her any more questions. Later he gave her a string of emeralds set with diamonds, which she wore to entertainments in the Neighborhood that autumn, and no one asked any more questions about the pearls, since it was natural that she should prefer to wear his gift.

His trust in her was absolute, as he had said. It seemed as if he would make amends now by the plenitude of his confidence, for that former instinctive, reasonless distrust. And then she was so different from the frivolous girl he had first imagined her. Every day he reproached himself with his old estimate of her character, as he discovered in her new and unexpected depths of brain and soul. She read all the books that he recommended--some of them very deep, and she would once have thought very tiresome--and she surprised him by the intelligence of her criticisms, she took a sympathetic interest in those articles by which he was making a name for himself in the scientific world, and she entered with an apparently perfect comprehension into all his hopes, thoughts and aspirations. There was only one thing in which she baffled him, one point where her old wilfulness would come between them. This was her obstinate and unaccountable refusal to name their wedding day.

The Neighborhood was exercised on the subject. It had been decided by unanimous consent that the wedding should be in the autumn--"quite the best time for a wedding" as the Rector's wife observed, and lay awake one whole night planning the most charming (and inexpensive) decorations of autumn leaves and golden-rod. But all the reward she received for her pains was the information that Elizabeth did not care for autumn weddings, and as the Misses Van Vorst at Gerard's request, had taken a small apartment in town for the winter, the Rector's wife had many pangs at the thought that the Bassett Mills church and her husband would lose all the prestige that would attend this great event--to say nothing of the fee.

But when Gerard, as a matter of course, spoke of their being married in town, Elizabeth looked up deprecatingly into his face.

"Wait till I'm twenty-one," she pleaded. "This is my unlucky year, you know. Do please, Julian, wait till it's over."

But Gerard's face was set in rigid lines, like that of a man who is determined to stand no more trifling. Elizabeth's unlucky year would not be past till April.

_Chapter XXVII_

It was a bleak December day and Central Park seemed the last place where one would wish to loiter. The sky hung lowering overhead, gray, cold, heavy with the weight of invisible snowflakes. The wind made a dull moaning sound, as it stirred the bare branches of the trees. The lake, where at another season you see children sailing in the swan-boats, was nearly covered with a thin coating of ice. But Elizabeth Van Vorst as she stood with eyes intently fixed upon the small space of water still visible, did not seem to notice either the cold or the dreariness of the scene. She was leaning against a tree, and looking at nothing but the lake, till at the sound of foot-steps on the path, she turned to face Paul Halleck.

"So you got my note," she said, speaking listlessly, without a sign of surprise or satisfaction. She did not give him her hand, which clasped the other tightly, in the warm shelter of her muff.

"Yes, I got it; but I could wish you had chosen a warmer meeting-place, my dear." The last months had changed him, and not for the better. His figure had grown stouter, his beauty coarser. She shrank away in invincible repugnance from the careless familiarity of his manner.

"It was the best place I could think of," she said, curtly. "At home, we are always interrupted; at your studio--it is impossible. I had to see you--somehow, somewhere." She sat down on a bench near by, and shivering drew her furs about her.

"You do me too much honor," Paul returned, lightly. He took the seat beside her, his eyes resting, in involuntary fascination, on the rounded outlines of her cheek, the soft waves of auburn hair beneath her small black hat. "It's a long time since you have wished to see me of your own accord, my dear," he said, in a tone in which resentment struggled with his old, instinctive admiration of her beauty.

She turned to him, suddenly, her eyes hard, her face very white and set. "You know the reason." "I had to see you, to--to talk things over. You assume a right to control me, you ask me for money, you try to frighten me with threats. There must be an end of it. I"--she paused for a moment, and drew her breath quickly, while she flushed a dull crimson. "I have promised--Mr. Gerard," she said "to--to marry him next month."

He interrupted her with a scornful laugh. "To marry him--next month," he repeated. "And how about that ceremony which we know of--you and I--in the church at Cranston?"

The crimson flush faded and left her white, but still she did not flinch. "I have thought of that," she said, steadily, "and I have decided that it should not--make any difference. I don't believe the marriage would be legal--but that's neither here nor there. I don't want a divorce, I don't want the thing known, I don't consider that we were ever married. I don't think such a marriage as ours, which we both entered into without the slightest thought, which we have repented of"--

"Speak for yourself," he interposed.

"Which I have repented of, then," she went on, "ought to be binding. The clergyman who married us is dead; the witnesses, so old that they are childish, probably remember nothing about it. There is no one now living who remembers, except you and I. And for me I have determined to think of it as a dream, and I want you to promise me to do the same."

"But--there is the notice in the parish register." He was staring at her blankly, admiring in spite of himself, the calm resolution of her manner, the business-like precision with which she was unfolding her arguments, as if she had rehearsed them many times to herself.

"I have thought of that, too," she said, in answer to his last objection, "and I don't think it in the least likely that any one will ever see it. Why should they, without any clue? At all events, this is--the only way out." She faltered as her mind wandered for a moment unwillingly to another way which she had now despaired of--too easy a solution to her difficulties ever to come true. What a fool she had been to think that he would die! People like that never die. As she saw him now, in the full pride of his health and good looks, it seemed impossible to believe that any misfortune could assail him--least of all death! ...

"There is--no other way," she repeated, with a little, involuntary sob. "The risks are not great--but, at any rate, I must take them. Now, there is only one other thing"--She paused for a moment and then drew out of her purse a plain gold ring, and showed it to him. It was the ring which she had once worn on her finger for a few minutes, which she had kept carefully hidden ever since. She glanced about her; there was no one in sight except the policeman, who in the distance near the carriage-drive, was pacing up and down at his cold post and beating his hands to keep them warm. Elizabeth rose and went to the edge of the lake. With well-directed aim, she threw the tiny circlet of gold so that it struck the fast-vanishing surface of water and quickly disappeared. She drew a long sigh of relief. "There," she said, "that is over."

Paul watched her curiously. He saw that she attached to this little action a mysterious significance. He sneered harshly. "Very pretty and theatrical," he said. "But do you really think that by a thing like that--throwing away a ring--you can dissolve a marriage?"

She turned to him, her white face still resolute and intensely solemn. "I don't know," she said, quietly, "but I wanted to throw it away before you, so that you would understand that everything is over between us, and that day at Cranston is as if it never had been. _Never had been_, you understand," she repeated, with eager emphasis. "I want you to promise to think of it like that."

He shrugged his shoulders. "How we either of us think of it, I suppose, doesn't make much difference so far as the legality of the thing goes," he said. "But,--have your own way. If you choose to commit a crime, it's not my affair."

"A crime!" She started and stared at him. "Do you call that a crime?"

He smiled. "It's a rough word to use for the actions of a charming young girl," he said "but I'm afraid that the law might look at it in that light."

Elizabeth returned to the bench and sat down. She seemed to be pondering this new view of the matter. "I can't help it," she said at last, in a low voice. "If that's a crime, why--I understand how people are led into them. And I can't ruin his happiness, crime or no crime."

"And my happiness?" he asked her bitterly. "You never think of that? You professed to love me once. You took me for better, for worse, and how have you kept your word? If my life is ruined, the responsibility is yours. If you had gone with me as I wanted you to, I should have been a different man." There was a curious accent of sincerity in his voice. He really believed for the moment what he said.

The reproach was not without effect. She looked at him more gently, with troubled eyes that seemed to express not only contrition, but a certain involuntary sympathy. "It's true," she said. "I have treated you badly, and broken the most solemn promise any one could make. I don't defend myself; but--I'm willing to make what amends I can. I can't give you myself, but at least I can give you what little money you would have had with me. When I am married to"--she paused and flushed, but concluded her sentence firmly--"to Mr. Gerard, I will give you--all the money I have."

Paul paced up and down, apparently in deep thought. It was evident that her offer tempted him, yet some impulse urged him to refuse it. He stopped suddenly in front of her. "Principal or interest, do you mean?" he asked, in a tone in which the thirst for gain distinctly predominated.