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He could not stay long in the woods. He betook himself to the hills
and meadows. Action was beneficial for him, though he soon exhausted
himself. He would have liked to fight out his battle that day. Should
he go on spending his days and nights in a slowly increasing torment?
The longer he fought the less chance he had of victory. Victory! There
could be none. What victory could be won over a strange ineradicable
susceptibility to the sweetness, charm, mystery of a woman? He plodded
the fragrant fields with bent head, in despair. Loneliness hurt him as
much as anything. And a new pang, the fiercest and most insupportable,
had been added to his miseries. Jealousy! Thought of the father of Mel
Iden's child haunted him, flayed him, made him feel himself ignoble
and base. There was no help for that. And this fiend of jealousy added
fuel to his love. Only long passionate iteration of his assurance of
principle and generosity subdued that frenzy and at length gave him
composure. Perhaps this had some semblance to victory.
Lane returned to town weaker in one way than when he had left, yet
stronger in another. Upon the outskirts of Middleville he crossed the
river road and sat down upon a stone wall. The afternoon was far spent
and the sun blazing red. Lane wiped his moist face and fanned himself
with his hat. Behind him the shade of a wooded garden or park looked
inviting. Back in the foliage he espied the vine-covered roof of an
old summer house.
A fresh young voice burst upon his meditations. "Hello, Daren Lane."
Lane turned in surprise to behold a girl in white, standing in the
shade of trees beyond the wall. Somewhere he had seen that beautiful
golden head, the dark blue, almost purple eyes.
"Good afternoon. You startled me," said Lane.
"I called you twice."
"Indeed? I beg pardon. I didn't hear."
"Don't you remember me?" Her tone was one of pique and doubt.
Then he remembered her. "Oh, of course. Bessy Bell! You must forgive
me. I've been ill and upset lately. These bad spells of mine magnify
time. It seems long since the Junior Prom."
"Oh, you're ill," she returned, compassionately. "You do look pale
and--won't you come in? It's dusty and hot there. Come. I'll take you
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where it's nice and cool."
"Thank you. I'll be glad to."
She led him to a green, fragrant nook, where a bench with cushions
stood half-hidden under heavy foliage. Lane caught a glimpse of a
winding flagged path, and in the distance a cottage among the trees.
"Bessy, do you live here?" he asked. "It's pretty."
"Yes, this is my home. It's too damn far from town, I'll say. I'm
buried alive," she replied, passionately.
The bald speech struck Lane forcibly. All at once he remembered Bessy
Bell and his former interest. She was a type of the heretofore
inexplicable modern girl. Lane looked at her, seeing her suddenly with
a clearer vision. Bessy Bell had a physical perfection, a loveliness
that needed neither spirit nor animation. But life had given this girl
so much more than beauty. A softness of light seemed to shine round
her golden head; smiles played in secret behind her red lips ready to
break forth, and there was a haunting hint of a dimple in her round
cheek; on her lay the sweetness of youth subtly dawning into
womanhood; the flashing eyes were keen with intellect, with fire, full
of promise and mystic charm; and her beautiful, supple body, so
plainly visible, seemed quivering with sheer, restless joy of movement
and feeling. A trace of artificial color on her face and the
indelicacy of her dress but slightly counteracted Lane's first
impression.
"You promised to call me up and make a date," she said, and sat down
close to him.
"Yes. I meant it too. But Bessy, I was ill, and then I forgot. You
didn't miss much."
"Hot dog! Hear the man. Daren, I'd throw the whole bunch down to be
with you," she exclaimed.
At the end of that speech she paled slightly and her breath came
quickly. She looked bold, provocative, expectant, yet sincere. Child
or woman, she had to be taken seriously. Here indeed was the mystery
that had baffled Lane. He realized his opportunity, like a flash all
his former thought and conjecture about this girl returned to him.
"You would. Well, I'm highly flattered. Why, may I ask?"
"Because I've fallen for you," she replied, leaning close to him.
"That's the main reason, I guess.... But another is, I want you to
tell me all about yourself--in the war, you know."
"I'd be glad to--if we get to be real friends," he said, thoughtfully.
"I don't understand you."
"And I'll say I don't just get you," she retorted. "What do you want?
Have you forgotten the silver platter?"
She turned away with a restless quivering. She had shown no shyness.
She was bold, intense, absolutely without fear; and however
stimulating or attractive the situation evidently was, it was neither
new nor novel to her. Some strange leaven worked deep in her. Lane
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could put no other interpretation on her words and actions than that
she expected him to kiss her.
"Bessy Bell, look at me," said Lane, earnestly. "You've said a [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]