Part 7

The man comes on, moving slowly, feebly, I see as he gets nearer. I think of trivial things, as we do in crisic moments. Bobby is taller than I thought. The hat he is wearing adds distinction to one who is already distingué. The crease in his trousers will be copied by the young men of Marsville. From somewhere in me a faint satisfaction stirs that the party has left me wearing my best new gown, my hair done in a New York way.

Almost at my side Bobby stops, panting a little. I speak first. Women always do. I feel sure Eve opened the conversation when Adam waked from the sleep that deprived him of a rib and supplied him with a wife.

“So you have come again—and not alone this time.” It is not in the least what I meant to say.

“Did you know that I came?” Bobby’s low voice holds a note of surprise. “How did you know? But I suppose the boy told you.”

“I was in the garden. I saw you. I know why you came, and why you left.”

“Why did I leave?”

“You ran from a youthful ideal.”

“Men have done more foolish things,” Bobby’s answer comes gravely.

“And wiser.” I hate the mocking laughter that escapes my lips.

“I don’t understand you.” His face has grown whiter; it has changed subtly. “Has Elliott been here? Is it Elliott?”

I sweetly assure him that Mr. Elliott has been here, and I manage to leave the impression that he may be coming again.

This time Bobby’s face goes close to black. With a mocking little bow he bids me good-bye, turns, goes down the road. He marches straight ahead. I have never seen a lion stalk through an African jungle, but I think of one as I look at him. Where is he going? Where is Dicky’s lover going? A dumb sort of fright grips me. I spin down the road to where he marches breast forward with never a backward look—if a woman can spin in these narrow-not-made-to-overtake-anybody’s-lover New York frocks.

“Bobby,” I cry, hard upon him, “stop!”

He turns. Not the Bobby of my letters, not the Bobby of my dreams, not the Bobby of Washington Square, a politely impatient-to-be-gone stranger.

Always, it is the unexpected that overtakes me. To my amazed surprise I wet with salty tears my New York finery.

“I’m tired, Bobby,” I gasp. “I’ve been having a party—and I’m not used to having parties. That’s what makes me such a cat. And, oh, Bobby, you’ll have to pardon things—Dicky just sprung your coming on us.”

“Dicky didn’t know that I was coming.” He speaks slowly, he takes my face in his hands and looks down at me, a long, deep look. The hard, black look on his own face has lifted.

As I try to tell him that Dicky didn’t tell me he was ill, that I have just learned it from Mr. Elliott’s letter, as I try to tell him what the bright May world would be to Dicky with him gone out of it, and as I flounder that I hope they will be heavenly happy, I splash more tears on my pretty clothes.

Bobby’s face flashes—all that a woman could want or dream of comes into it.

“Dicky didn’t know I was in the hospital. I went in under an assumed name. When a fellow’s tied up with publishers and theatrical people like I am——” Bobby drops the subject as one that holds no further interest. “If I had died, would it have spoiled the May world for you, Caroline?” There is a sharp note of anxiety in his voice.

“Bobby, Bobby!” I cry, wildly. “Don’t ask me! What have you done with Dicky! Where is Dicky?”

“I am not Dicky’s keeper.” The light glows and glows in his face. “She’s got one, though, and it was odd we should all three have left town together. I smoked like a furnace all the way down as an excuse to keep away from them. Caroline”—Bobby’s arms close about me—“I am not Dicky’s—I am yours.”

Walking home in the twilight that is gray and tender as a dove’s breast, Bobby tells me that he _was_ afraid the night he ran away. He says he has tried and tried not to love me—that men like him should never marry—that they should live alone on the top of the Flat Iron. “But it is bigger than I,” he says, gravely. “It has swept me to your feet.”

“To my heart,” I correct, happily.

The hack lumbers around the curve, descends upon us. At sight of us Dicky and the strange young man who sits on the back seat with her—John and Ellinor are on the middle seat—roar with laughter.

“You sly fox!” Dicky cries. “How did you get here? We left him on the train, Caroline, and he sent his regards to you—and he said he was on his way to Colorado.”

“I am,” Bobby boldly declares. “I stopped by to see if Caroline would go with me. As to my getting here first, I live in New York. As rapid transit as is obtainable, say I.”

Dicky flings herself into my arms. “You owe it all to me,” she declares. “I found him deadly tiresome.” She beamed on Bobby. “All his talk was about you.

“You sly fox,” she whirled on him again. “You didn’t need to have me tell you about Caroline. You were hearing from her all the time, now, weren’t you? Why didn’t you tell me, Caroline?”

“I—I—I——” I stammered.

Bobby isn’t timid, he’s bold as a lion. “The reason is obvious,” he declares. “I wouldn’t let her. Had you known that I heard, too, it would have changed everything.”

The others descend from the hack. It goes on with Dicky’s baggage. I realize that John has been an unnecessarily long time helping Ellinor out of the carriage; but there are no surprises left in the world. I greet Dicky’s lover. As we take our leisurely way home I don’t even wonder what mammy will have for supper.

_May 30th._

“_Day’s at the morn Morning’s at seven; The hillside’s dew-pearled_”——

I am just back from taking a look at old Camel Back. The morning’s like an opal—it’s all a shifting mist shot through with sunshine. None of the mountains have shaken off their last night’s mist-blankets but that brave old blessed Camel Back. He knew I’d be up, and he gave me royal greeting. “Well,” he seemed to say, “haven’t I poured all the treasures of the earth perfumed with all the scents of Araby into your outstretched hands?”

I meant to tell Bobby about Camel Back—for so long I have told my fancies to a pictured Bobby—but when I thought of it last night, just before he left for the “dinky” little hotel with Dicky’s doctor—he was busy fitting a piece of cardboard in which he had cut a round hole on a certain finger of my left hand, and, anyway, it is not easy to tell fancies to an eager man who is murmuring realities in one’s ears—like this: “Dearest one, will you hurry, oh, hurry, and get the gingham, and the barred muslin, and the bias bombazine fixed up, and let’s get married quick.”

The morning’s at seven. At eight all of us, Bobby and Dicky’s doctor, Ellinor, too, are going to breakfast in my rose garden. Mammy planned it last night. She came to the sitting-room door and asked them all with the manner of a duchess.

I go to the kitchen door—broiled chickens and waffles, strawberries and cream. “Can I help you, mammy?”

“Mammy don’t need no help. This come while you was gallivantin’ up the lane.” The big, bold, square envelope sets my heart to leaping:

DEAREST:

I looked into my thought reservoir last night after I left you and discovered that if I hadn’t ever met you before I would have loved you just the same. Is that disloyalty to Carrie with the gold braids and the capricious moods? No, by my halidome, no! I have two in my heart—two girls—one the ideal of romantic youth, the other, the completer, sweeter, better beloved Caroline, but no less an ideal. Am I not the richest man in the world? If this be bigamy, give me bigamy or give me death.

P.S. I didn’t answer that question last night. Why did the cabby swear at you? Cabbies always swear unless you tip them. But never mind, hereafter I’ll be on hand to do the tipping for you.

P.P.S. I want you, my honey.

P.P.P.S. I need you.

THE END

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added, when a predominant preference was found in the original book.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

p16 -> ‘who is just begining’ amended to ‘beginning’ p36 -> ‘Bobbie answers’ amended to ‘Bobby answers’ p50 -> ‘when that oldtime’ amended to ‘old-time’ p63 -> ‘Hs is trying’ amended to ‘he’ p80 -> ‘Mr. Eliott’s eyes’ amended to ‘Elliott’ p86 -> ‘he knows the housefurnishings’ amended to ‘house furnishings’ p98 -> ‘the mounta ns against’ amended to ‘mountains’ p99 -> ‘her shoulders n ghts’ amended to ‘nights’ p100 -> ‘The goss p’ amended to ‘gossip’ p105 -> ‘who is already distinguè’ amended to ‘distingué’ p108 -> ‘the back seat w th’ amended to ‘with’