The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

BRING! BRING!

I.

Miss Rooker dreamed that she was on board the Falcon in Marblehead Harbor. Dr. Fish was uncorking a bottle of champagne, contorting his face grotesquely, his gray mustache pushed up so that it seemed to envelop his red nose. Dr. Harrington, tall and thin in his white flannels, stood beside the gramophone, singing with wide open mouth, his eyes comically upturned towards the low cabin ceiling; his white flannel arm was round Miss Paine’s waist. As he sang he seemed to draw her tighter and tighter against his side, his face darkened, Miss Paine began to scream. The cork came out with a loud pop, froth poured onto the napkin. Miss Rooker held out her glass to be filled, and a great blob of champagne froth fell upon the front of her skirt. It was her white duck skirt which buttoned all the way down with large mother-of-pearl buttons. “Oh—Dr. Harrington!” she cried. Dr. Fish reached down a hand to wipe it away—she was transfixed with delight and horror when instead he unbuttoned one of the buttons, at the same time bringing his mustached face very close to hers and intensely smiling. She had no clothes on, and he was touching her knee. Dr. Harrington sang louder, Miss Paine screamed louder, the gramophone cawed and squealed, and now Dr. Fish was uncorking one bottle after another—pop! pop! pop! She sat in the stern of the tender, trailing one hand in the water of the dark harbor, as they rowed rapidly away from the yacht. Dr. Harrington, slightly drunk, was driving rather recklessly—from side to side of the Boulevard went the car, and Miss Rooker and Dr. Fish were tumbled together; he pinched her side. She would be late—they would be late—long after midnight. The sky was already growing light. Birds began singing. A sparrow, rather large, ridiculously large, opened his mouth wide and started shouting in through her window: “Bring! Bring! Bring! Bring! Bring!…” She woke at this. A sparrow was chirping noisily in the wild cherry tree outside her window. She was in Duxbury. It was a hot morning in summer. She was “on a case”—Mrs. Oldkirk. Mrs. Oldkirk would be waking and would want her glass of hot milk. Perhaps Mrs. Oldkirk had been calling? She listened. No. Nothing but the sparrows and the crickets. But it was time to get up. Why on earth should she be dreaming, after all this time, of Dr. Harrington and Dr. Fish? Five years ago. Possibly because Mr. Oldkirk reminded her of Dr. Fish.… Brushing her black hair before the mirror, and looking into her dark-pupiled brown eyes, she felt melancholy. She was looking very well—very pretty. She sang softly, so as not to disturb Mrs. Oldkirk in the next room: “And when I told—them—how beautiful you were—they wouldn’t be—lieve—me; they wouldn’t be—lieve—me.” Delicious, a deep cold bath on a sultry morning like this; and today the bathing would be good, a high tide about twelve o’clock. Mr. Oldkirk and Miss Lavery would be going in.… Miss Lavery was Mrs. Oldkirk’s cousin.… Well, it really was disgraceful, the way they behaved! Pretending to “keep house” for Mrs. Oldkirk! Did anybody else notice it? And Mr. Oldkirk was very nice-looking; she liked his sharp blue eyes, humorous. “And—when—I—told—them—how beautiful you were—”

Mrs. Oldkirk was already awake, her hands clasped under her braided hair, her bare white elbows tilted upward.

“Good morning, Miss Rooker,” she said languidly.

“Good morning, Mrs. Oldkirk. Did you sleep well?”

“No, it was too hot … far too hot … even without a sheet. The ice melted in the lemonade. It was disgusting.”

“Will you want your hot milk this morning?”

“Oh, yes—certainly. What time is it, Miss Rooker?”

“Just seven-thirty.”

All the windows in the house were open, as Miss Rooker passed through the hall and down the stairs. The sea-wind sang softly through the screens, sea-smells and pine-smells, and the hot morning was like a cage full of birds. “Bring! Bring!” the sparrow had shouted—remarkable dream—and here she was, bringing, bringing hot milk on a hot morning, bringing hot milk to a lazy neurotic woman (rather pretty) who was no more an invalid than she was herself. Why did she want to stay in bed? Why did she want a nurse? A slave would have done as well—there wasn’t the slightest occasion for medical knowledge. The massage, of course. But it was very queer. There was something wrong. And Miss Lavery and Mr. Oldkirk were always talking together till past midnight, talking, talking!

Hilda was lighting the fire in the kitchen range, her pale face saturated with sleep, her pale hair untidy. The green shades were still down over the windows, and the kitchen had the air of an aquarium, the oak floor scrubbed white as bone.

“Good morning, Hilda—how was the dance last night?”

“Lovely.… But oh, sweet hour, how sleepy I am!”

“You look it. You’ll lose your beauty.”

“Oh, go on!”

The fire began crackling in the range; small slow curls of blue smoke oozed out round the stove lids. Miss Rooker went to the ice-chest, took out the bottle of milk. Holding it by the neck, she returned upstairs. On the way she saw Mary setting the breakfast table; she, too, looked pale and sleepy, had been to the dance. “And when I told—them—” She poured the creamy milk into the aluminum saucepan and lit the alcohol lamp. Then she went to the window and watched the sea-gulls circling over the naked hot mud flats. Seals sat in rows. On the beach, fringed with eel-grass, near at hand, Mr. Oldkirk’s green dory was pulled far up, and rested amid gray matted seaweed.

By the time she had given Mrs. Oldkirk her hot milk, bathed the patient’s face and hands and wrists (beautiful wrists, languid and delicate) with cold water, and combed her hair, breakfast was half over.… Mr. Oldkirk, leaning forward on one elbow, was regarding Miss Lavery with a look humorous and intent. Iced grapefruit.

“Ah, here’s Miss Rooker,” said Mr. Oldkirk, glancing up at her quizzically, and pulling back her chair with outstretched hand.… “Good morning, Miss Rooker. Sit down. We have a problem for you to solve.”

Miss Lavery was wearing her pale green satin morning gown. It was becoming to her—oh, quite disgustingly—set off, somehow her long, blue eyes, lazy and liquid, tilted up at the corners a little like a Chinaman’s. But far too negligee. The idea of coming down to breakfast like that—with Mr. Oldkirk!

“I’m no good at riddles. Ask me an easy one.”

“Oh, this is extremely simple,” Mr. Oldkirk said, with just a hint of malice, “merely a question of observation—observation of one’s self.”

Miss Lavery thought this was very funny—she gave a snort of laughter, and stifled it behind her napkin. Really! thought Miss Rooker—when she leaned forward like that!—with that low, loose morning gown! Scandalous.

“You’re good at observing, Miss Rooker—tell us, how long does a love affair last—a normal, you know, ordinary one, I mean?”

“Well, upon my soul!” cried Miss Rooker. “Is that what’s worrying you?”

“Oh, yes, poor man, he’s terribly worried about it.” Miss Lavery snickered, eying Mr. Oldkirk with a gleaming mock derision. “He’s been wrangling with me, all breakfast through, about it.”

“Seriously, Miss Rooker”—he pretended to ignore Miss Lavery—“it’s an important scientific question. And of course a charming young lady like you has had some experience of—er—the kind?”

Miss Rooker blushed. She was annoyed, she could not have said exactly why. She was annoyed with both of them: just slightly. Glancing at Mr. Oldkirk (yes, he certainly looked like Dr. Fish) she said shortly:

“You want to know too much.”

Mr. Oldkirk opened his eyes. “Oh!” he said—then again, in a lower tone, “Oh.” He frowned at his plate, breathed densely through his grayish mustache.… Then, to Miss Lavery, who had suddenly become rather frigid, and was looking at Miss Rooker just a little impudently:

“Any more coffee, Helen?…”

“Not a drop.”

“Damn.” He got up, slow and tall.

“Berty! You shouldn’t swear before Miss Rooker.” Miss Lavery’s words tinkled as coldly and sharply as ice in a pitcher of lemonade. Hateful woman! Were they trying to make her feel like a servant?

“Oh, I’m quite used to it, Miss Lavery. Doctors, you know!”

Miss Lavery, leaning plump, bare elbows on the mahogany table, clasping long, white fingers lightly before her chin, examined Miss Rooker attentively. “Oh, yes, you’re used to doctors, of course. They’re very immoral, aren’t they?”

Miss Rooker turned scarlet, gulped her coffee, while Miss Lavery just perceptibly smiled.

“How’s the patient this morning?” Mr. Oldkirk turned around from the long window, where he had been looking out at the bay. “Any change?”

“No. She’s the picture of health, as she always is.” Miss Rooker was downright. “I think she ought to be up.”

“That’s not my opinion, Miss Rooker, nor the doctor’s either.”

“Well—”

“She’s been ordered a long rest.”

“A rest, do you call it! With—” Miss Rooker broke off, angry and helpless.

“With what?” Mr. Oldkirk’s tone was inquisitively sharp.

“Oh, well,” Miss Rooker sighed, “I don’t understand these nervous cases; I suppose I don’t. If I had my way, though, I’d have her up and out before you could say Jack Robinson.”

Mr. Oldkirk was dry and decisive.

“That’s your opinion, Miss Rooker. You would probably admit that Dr. Hedgley knows a little more about it than you do.”

He sauntered out of the dining room, hands in pockets, lazy and powerful.

“Another slice of toast, Miss Rooker?…” Miss Lavery asked the question sweetly, touching with one finger the electric toaster.…

“No, thank you, Miss Lavery. Not any more.”

II.

“Don’t read, Miss Rooker, it’s too hot, I can’t listen. And I’m so tired of all those he saids and she saids and said he with a wicked smile! It’s a tiresome story. Talk to me instead. And bring me a glass of lemonade.”

Mrs. Oldkirk turned on her side and smiled lazily. Indolent gray eyes.

“It is hot.”

“I suppose you enjoy nursing, Miss Rooker?”

“Oh, yes, it has its ups and downs. Like everything else.”

“You get good pay, and massaging keeps your hands soft. You must see lots of interesting things, too.”

“Very. You see some very queer things, sometimes. Queer cases. Living as one of the family, you know, in all sorts of out-of-the-way places—”

“I suppose my case seems queer to you.” Mrs. Oldkirk’s eyes were still and candid, profound.

“Well—it does—a little!…”

The two women looked at each other, smiling. The brass traveling clock struck eleven. Mary could be heard sweeping the floor in Miss Rooker’s room: swish, swish.

“It’s not so queer when you know about it.” She turned her head away, somber.

“No, nothing is, I suppose. Things are only queer seen from the outside.”

“Ah, you’re unusually wise for a young girl, Miss Rooker! I daresay you’ve had lots of experience.”

Miss Rooker blushed, flattered.

“Do you know a good deal about men?”

“Well—I don’t know—it all depends what you mean.”

Mrs. Oldkirk yawned, throwing her head back on the pillow. She folded her hands beneath her head, and smiled curiously at the ceiling.

“I mean what damned scoundrels they are … though I guess there are a few exceptions.… You’d better go for your swim, if you’re going.… Bring me some hot milk at twelve-thirty.… No lunch.… And I think I’ll sit on the balcony for an hour at three. You can ask them to join me there for tea. Iced tea.”

“You’d better try a nap.”

“Nap! Not much. Bring me that rotten book. I’ll read a little.”

Miss Rooker, going into her room for the towel, met Mary coming out: a dark sensual face. “Oh, you dancing girl!” she murmured, and Mary giggled. The hot sea-wind sang through the screen, salt-smelling. She threw the towel over her shoulder and stood for a moment at the window, melancholy, looking past the railed end of the balcony, and over the roof of the veranda. The cherries in the wild cherry tree were dark red and black, nearly ripe. The bay itself looked hot—the lazy small waves flashed hotly and brilliantly, a wide lazy glare of light all the way from the monument hill to the outer beach, of which the white dunes seemed positively to be burning up. Marblehead was better, the sea was colder there, rocks were better than all this horrible mud—the nights were cooler; and there was more life in the harbor. The good old Falcon! “Them was happy days”—that was what Dr. Fish was always saying. And Mr. Oldkirk was extraordinarily like him, the same lazy vigorous way of moving about, slow heavy limbs, a kind of slothful grace. She heard his voice. He and Miss Lavery were coming out, the screen door banged, they emerged bare-headed into the heat, going down the shell path to the bathhouse. “Hell infernal,” he was saying, opening one hand under the sunlight as one might do to feel a rain—“which reminds me of the girl whose name was Helen Fernald … that’s what you are: hell infernal.” Miss Lavery opened her pongee parasol, and her words were lost under it. She was very graceful—provocatively graceful, and her gait had about it a light inviting freedom, something virginal and at the same time sensuous. She gave a sudden screech of laughter as they went round the corner of the bathhouse.

“It’s not a nursing case at all,” she thought, standing before her mirror—“they pay me to amuse her, that’s all—or she pays me—which is it?” She leaned close to the mirror, regarding her white almost transparent-seeming temples, the full red mouth (she disliked her lower lip, which she had always thought too heavy—pendulous) and the really beautiful dark hair, parted, and turned away from her brow in heavy wings. “And when I told them—” Did Mr. Oldkirk like her eyes? That awful word—oh, really dreadful, but so true—Dr. Fish had used about her eyes! But Mr. Oldkirk seemed to like Chinese eyes better.… Ought she to stay—just being a kind of lady’s maid like this? And it wasn’t right. No; it wasn’t decent. She would like to say so to their faces. “I think you’d better get another nurse at the end of the week, Mr. Oldkirk—I don’t approve of the way things are going on here—no, I don’t approve at all. Shameful, that’s what it is!—you and Miss Lavery—” But what did she know about him and Miss Lavery?… A pang. Misery. They were just cousins. A filthy mind she had, imagining such things. She had heard them talking, talking on the veranda, they went out late at night in the green dory; once, three nights ago, she had thought she heard soft footsteps in the upstairs hall, and a murmur, a long sleepy murmur.… “How beautiful you wer-r-r-r-r-re.”

The bathhouse was frightfully hot—like an oven. It smelt of salt wood and seaweed. She took her clothes off slowly, feeling sand on the boards under her feet. She could hear Miss Lavery moving in the next “cell,” occasionally brushing her clothes against the partition or thumping an elbow. Helen Lavery. Probably about thirty—maybe twenty-eight. A social service worker, they said—she’d be a fine social service worker! Going round and pretending to be a fashionable lady. Sly, tricky, disgusting creature!… And that one-piece bathing suit—! She was too clever to miss any chance like that. Of course, she had a beautiful figure, though her legs were just a shade too heavy. And she used it for all it was worth.

Miss Lavery was already thigh-deep in the water (in the gap between two beds of eel-grass) wading, with a swaying slow grace, towards Mr. Oldkirk, who floated on his back with hardly more than his nose and mustache visible. She skimmed the water with swallow-swift hands, forward and back, as she plunged deeper. “Oo! delicious,” she cried, and sank with a soft turmoil, beginning to swim. “Don’t bump me,” Mr. Oldkirk answered, blowing, “I’m taking a nap.”

The sunlight beat like cymbals on the radiant beach. The green dory was almost too hot to touch, but Miss Rooker dragged and pushed it into the water, threw in the anchor, and shoved off. “Look out!” she sang, whacking a blade on the water.

“Hello! Where are you off to, Miss Rooker?” Mr. Oldkirk blew like a seal.

“Marblehead.”

“Dangerous place for young ladies, Miss Rooker. Better not stay after dark!”

“Oh, Marblehead’s an open book to me!” Miss Rooker was arch.

“Oh, it is, is it!” He gave a loud “Ha!” in the water, blowing bubbles. “Better take me, then!”

He took three vigorous strokes, reached up a black-haired hand to the gunwale, and hauling himself up, deliberately overturned the dory. Miss Rooker screamed, plunged sidelong past Mr. Old-kirk’s head (saw him grinning) into the delicious cold shock of water. Down she went, and opening her eyes saw Mr. Oldkirk’s green legs and blue body, wavering within reach—she took hold of his cold, hard knee, then flung her arms round his waist, hugged him ecstatically, pulled him under. They became, for a second, deliciously entangled under the water. The top of his head butted her knee, his hand slid across her hip. Then they separated, kicking each other, and rose, both sputtering.

“Trying—woof—to drown me?” he barked, shaking his head from side to side. “A nice trick!”

“You did it!”… Miss Rooker laughed, excited. She swam on her back, out of breath, looking at Mr. Oldkirk intensely. Had he guessed that there, under the water, she had touched him deliberately? There was something in his eyes—a small sharp gleam as of secret intimacy, a something admitted between them—or was it simply a question?… Averting his eyes, suddenly, he swam to the upturned dory, and began pushing it toward the shore. Miss Lavery, who could not swim well, stood in shallow water, up to her middle, breathlessly ducking up and down. She looked rather ridiculous.

“What are you children doing!” she cried, chattering. “I’m cold; I think I’ll go in.”

Mr. Oldkirk pushed, swimming, thrashing the water with powerful legs. “You ought to be”—he puffed—“damned glad”—he puffed—“to be cold on a day like this”—he puffed—“Helen!” Then he called: “Come on—Miss Rooker! Give me a hand. Too heavy.”

She put her hands against one corner of the green bow. The dory moved slowly. It would be easy to touch his legs again—the thought pleased her, she laughed, and, letting her laughing mouth sink below the surface, blew a wild froth of bubbles. Their faces were very close to one another. Miss Lavery, standing and watching, lifted conscious elbows to tuck her hair under her bathing cap.

“You swim like a fish,” said Mr. Oldkirk. “Must be a granddaughter of Venus. Was it Venus who came up out of Duxbury Bay on a good-sized clamshell?”

Miss Rooker laughed, puzzled. Was he flattering, or being sarcastic?… What about Venus?… “No,” she said. “Nothing like that. But, oh, how I do enjoy it!”

In shallow water they righted and emptied the dory, restored the oars. While Mr. Oldkirk, getting into the boat, began hauling himself out to the anchor, which had fallen in, Miss Rooker climbed the beach toward the bathhouse. Miss Lavery stood before the door, taking off her bathing cap. Her face was hard. She was shivering. She struck her cap against the door jamb, sharply, and gave a little malicious smile.

“I know why you did that!” she said. She stepped in and shut the door.

Miss Rooker stared at the door, furious. Her first impulse was to open the door and shout something savagely injurious. The vixen! the snake!… She went into her own room—hot as an oven—and dropped the bathing suit off. Miss Lavery had suspected something.… Well, let her suspect.… She dried herself slowly with the warm towel, enjoying the beauty of her cool body. Let her suspect! Good for her.… Ah, it had been delicious!… She would let Miss Lavery hear her singing. “And—when—I—told—them—”…

Five minutes later Miss Lavery banged her door and departed, and Miss Rooker smiled.

III.

Mrs. Oldkirk, languid and pretty in her pink crêpe-de-Chine dressing gown, leaned back in her wicker chair resting her head on the tiny pillow and closed her eyes. Her silver-embroidered slippers, with blue pom-poms, were crossed on the footstool. The magazine had fallen from her hand. “Oh, how heavenly,” she murmured. “Nothing as heavenly as a scalp massage.… You’re very skillful, Miss Rooker. You have the touch.… Not so much on the top, now—a little more at the sides, and down the neck.…”

Miss Rooker, standing behind the wicker chair, stared over her patient’s head into the dressing-table mirror. Massage. Massage. It was insufferably hot. The breeze had dropped. She felt drowsy. Zeek—zeek—zeek—zeek—zeek sang the crickets in the hot grass under the afternoon sun. The long seething trill of a cicada died languidly away—in a tree, she supposed. She remembered seeing a locust attacked by a huge striped bee—or was it a wasp? They had fallen together to the ground, in the dry grass, and the heavy bee, on top, curving its tail malevolently, stung the gray-pleated upturned belly, the poor creature shrilling and spinning all the while. Then the bee—or wasp—had zoomed away, and the gray locust, color of ashes, spun on its back a little and lay still.… Down the smooth soft neck. A curved pressure over and behind the ears. What was the matter with Mrs. Oldkirk? Too young for change of life—no. Something mysterious. She was very pretty, in her soft lazy supercilious way, and had a queer rich indifferent-seeming personality. A loose screw somewhere—too bad. Or was it that she was—Mrs. Oldkirk yawned.

“I love to feel someone fooling about my head: the height of luxury. When I go to the hairdresser I feel like staying all day. I’d like to pay them to keep on for hours. Especially if it’s a man! Something thrilling about having your hair done by a man. Don’t you know? It tickles you all over.”

Miss Rooker laughed, embarrassed. Singular remark! “Yes—” she answered slowly, as if with uncertainty. “I think I know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you do—you haven’t those naughty black eyes for nothing, Miss Rooker! Ha, ha!”

“Oh, well, I suppose I’m human.” Miss Rooker snickered. Were her eyes “naughty”? She wanted to study them in the glass, but was afraid that Mrs. Oldkirk would be watching. Zeek—zeek—zeek—zeek—sang the crickets. What were they doing, where were they now? Was Miss Lavery taking a nap? Were they out in the car?… Her arms were beginning to be tired.

“Tell me, Miss Rooker, as woman to woman—what do you think of men?” Mrs. Oldkirk opened her gray eyes, lazily smiling.

“Well—I like them very much, if that’s what you mean.”

“I suppose so! You’re still young. How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Ah, yes. Very young. Lucky girl.… But you wait fourteen years! Then see what you think of men.”

“Do they seem so different?”

“They don’t seem, my dear girl, they are. It’s when you’re young that they seem. Later on, you begin to understand them—you get their number. And then—oh, my God—you want to exterminate the whole race of them. The nasty things!”

Miss Rooker felt herself blushing.

“Oh, I’m sure they aren’t as bad as all that!”

“Devil’s advocate! Miss Rooker.… Don’t try to defend them.… They’re all rotten.… Oh, I don’t mean that there isn’t a dear old parson here and there, you know—but then you remember the words of the song—‘Even staid old country preachers are engaging tango teachers.’ You can’t get away from it!… No, the man doesn’t live that I’d trust with a lead nickel.… By which, however, I don’t mean that I don’t enjoy having my hair done by a man! Ha, ha!”… Mrs. Oldkirk gave a queer little laugh, flaccid and bitter. She looked at herself, with parted lips, in the mirror: a distant sort of scrutiny, slightly contemptuous. Then, relaxing, she added, “Take my advice—don’t every marry. It’s a snare and a delusion.”

“Why, I should love to marry!”

“Oh, you would!… In that case all I can say is I hope you’ll have better luck than I did.…”

Miss Rooker was silent, confused.

“Tell me, has Betty, my husband—been flirting with you? Don’t be afraid to be frank—it doesn’t matter, you know!”

“Why, no—he hasn’t.”

“You probably wouldn’t tell me if he had. But if he hasn’t yet, he will.… Give him time!”

“Good heavens! What a thing to say!”

“Do I shock you?… I know him like the alphabet!… Poor old satyr.”

“You seem to!”

“Ah, I do.… Absolutely no principles—not a principle. There’s only one thing in Berty I’ve never been able to understand; and that’s his dislike of Miss Lavery. Ha, ha! That’s why I have Miss Lavery keep house for me.”

Mrs. Oldkirk closed her eyes again, faintly smiling. To say such things to her, a stranger! What was the matter with her? Miss Rooker was appalled at the indiscretion.… And Mr. Oldkirk and Miss Lavery going out in the dory at midnight, and talking, talking, long after everyone else had gone to bed.… And that footstep in the hall, and the long affectionate murmur—surely Miss Lavery’s voice?… It was all extraordinary. She had never been in such a queer place. She thought of the incident in the water, and then of Miss Lavery banging her rubber cap against the door, and saying, “I know why you did that!”… Well, Mrs. Oldkirk could sneer at Berty all she liked; but for her part—

“I think that’s enough, thank you, Miss Rooker.… You didn’t forget about the iced tea, did you?”

“No.”

“Do you know where Mr. Oldkirk and Miss Lavery are?”

“No—I think Miss Lavery’s lying down.”

“Well—three-thirty.… Would you mind picking up my magazine? It’s fallen down.…”

… Miss Rooker descended the shell path and sauntered along the hot beach. She sank down on the dry bedded seaweed in the shadow of the bluff. The seaweed was still warm, and smelt strongly of the sea … zeek—zeek—zeek—zeek.… So her eyes were naughty, were they! Perhaps they had more effect than she knew. She smiled. Perhaps Mr. Oldkirk—her heart was beating violently, she opened her book, for a delicious moment the type swam beneath her eyes.

IV.

“Good night,” said Miss Rooker. As she switched off the light and shut the door, the brass traveling clock began striking ten. She went down the stairs, carrying the tray. The lamp on the sitting-room table was lighted, a book was open, there was a smell of cigarette smoke, but nobody was there. The warm wind sang through the screens, fluttered the pages of the book. Where were they? She felt depressed. It was horrible—horrible! She wouldn’t stand it—not another day. Not another hour.… “Mr. Oldkirk, I want to speak to you: I feel that I can’t stay on here.…” Would he try to persuade her to stay? Ah! perhaps he wouldn’t.… They were probably on the beach—not on the veranda, anyway, or she would hear them. She carried the tray into the kitchen, pushing open the swing door. Mary and Hilda were standing close together at one of the windows looking out into the night. Hilda was giggling. They were watching something, standing still and tense.

“He is—he is”—said Mary in a low excited voice—“he’s kissing her. You can see their heads go together.”

“Well, what do you know.” Hilda’s drawl was full of wonder. “Sweet hour!… I wouldn’t mind it much myself.”

“Look! Do you see?”

Miss Rooker let go of the swing door; it shut with a thump, and the two girls started. Hilda’s face was scarlet, Mary was saturnine.

“Who’s kissing who?” asked Miss Rooker, looking angrily from one to the other. Hilda, still blushing, and putting back a strand of pale hair from her moist forehead, answered, embarrassed:

“It’s Mr. Oldkirk and Miss Lavery, miss.”

“Oh! And do you think it’s nice to be spying on them?”

“We weren’t spying—if they do it right on the beach, in the bright moonlight, it’s their lookout.”

Miss Rooker put down the tray and walked back to the sitting room. Her temples were throbbing. What ought she to do? It was disgraceful—before the servants like this! Shameful. She would do something—she must. She went out to the veranda, banging the screen door very loudly. Perhaps they would hear it, though she half hoped they wouldn’t. She went down the path, and as she got to the beach, with its moonlit seaweed, she began whistling, and walking toward the dory. What was she going to say? She didn’t know. Something. Something short and angry. The moonlight showed them quite clearly—they must have heard her coming, for Mr. Oldkirk was striking a match and lighting a cigarette, and they had moved apart. They were sitting against the dory.

“Why, it’s Miss Rooker!” cried Mr. Oldkirk. “Come and bask in the moonlight, Miss Rooker.”

She looked down at them, feeling her lips very dry.

“I felt I ought to tell you that the servants are watching you,” she said. There was a silence-dreadful. Then, as Mr. Oldkirk said, “Oh!” and began scrambling to his feet, she turned and walked away.… That would teach them! That would give that hateful woman something to think about!

In the sitting room she sat down by the table, sank her forehead in her hands and pretended to be reading. What was going to happen? The screen door banged and Miss Lavery stood in the hall, under the light.

“Miss Rooker,” she said. Her voice shook a little. Miss Rooker rose and moved slowly toward her, a little pleased to observe the whiteness of her face.

“What is it?”

“You’re a dirty spy,” was the low answer, and Miss Lavery, turning, went calmly up the stairs. She could think of nothing to say—nothing!… She burned. Anyone would suppose it was she who was in the wrong!… She sat down again, holding the book on her knee.… She would like to kill that woman!… Where was Mr. Oldkirk? She must see Mr. Oldkirk and tell him to his face—she would say that she was leaving tomorrow. Yes—tomorrow! By the nine-fifteen. They would have to get another nurse. Horrible! She discovered that she was trembling. What was she trembling for? She was angry, that was all, angry and excited—she wasn’t afraid. Afraid of what? Mr. Oldkirk? Absurd!… She began reading. The words seemed large, cold, and meaningless, the sentences miles apart. “Said she, he said, and said she, smiling cruelly.” Zeek—zeek—zeek—zeek—zeek—those damned crickets! Where, where in God’s name was Mr. Oldkirk?… Should she saunter out and meet him on the beach? No. He would put two and two together. He would remember her touching him in the water. She must wait—pretend to be reading. “The blind man put out his white, extraordinarily sensitive hand, his hand that was conscious as … eyes are conscious. He touched her face, and she shrank. His forefinger felt for the scar along the left side of her jaw and ran lightly, it seemed almost hysterically, over it—with hysterical joy. ‘Marie!’ he cried—‘it’s little Marie!…’” How perfectly ridiculous.… And to think of Mrs. Oldkirk, all the time thinking that Berty disliked Miss Lavery! That was the limit. Yes, the absolute limit. “That’s why I have her keep house for me.” But did she, perhaps, know it all the time?… Ah!… She was sly, Mrs. Oldkirk!… It was possible—it was perfectly possible.… Extraordinary house!

She heard footsteps on the veranda. She sprang up, switched off the light, leaving the sitting room in comparative darkness. She’d meet him in the hall—. She took two steps, and then, as the door slammed, stopped. No. She saw him standing, tall and indolent, just inside the door. He peered, wrinkling his forehead, in her direction, apparently not seeing her.

“Miss Rooker—are you there?”

“Yes.”

He came into the dark room, and she took an uncertain step toward him. He stopped, they faced each other, and there was a pause. He stood against the lighted doorway, huge and silhouetted.

“I wanted to speak to you”—his voice was embarrassed and gentle—“and I wanted to wait till Miss Lavery had gone to bed.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.… I wanted to apologize to you. It must have been very distressing for you.”

“Oh, not at all, I assure you.… Not in the least.” Her voice was a little faint—she put her hand against the edge of the table.

“I’m sure it was. Please forgive me.… Miss Lavery, you know—” He gave a queer uneasy laugh, as if there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t. What was it—was it that Miss Lavery was the one—? She felt, suddenly, extraordinarily happy.

“I think I’d better leave tomorrow,” she answered then, looking away. “I think it would be better.”

“Nonsense, my dear Miss Rooker! Don’t think of it.… Why should you?”

Her heart was beating so violently that she could hardly think. She heard him breathing heavily and quickly.

“Well,” she said, “I think it would be better.”

“Why? There’s no earthly reason.… No.” As she made no reply, he went on—“It won’t happen again—I can promise you that!” He again laughed, but this time as if he were thinking of something else, thinking of something funny that was going to happen.… Was he laughing at Miss Lavery?

Miss Rooker, unsteady, took a step to pass him, but he put out his hand. It closed upon her wrist. With his other hand he took slow possession of hers. She drew back, but only a little.

“Please,” she said.

“Please what?”

“Let me go.”

“Only when you’ve given me a promise.”

“What?”

“That you’ll stay here—with me.”

“Oh—you know I can’t!”

She was trembling, and was ashamed to know that his hands must feel her trembling.

“Promise!” he said. She looked up at him—his eyes were wide, dark, beautiful, full of intention.

“Very well, I promise.”

“Good! Good girl.…” He did not let go of her hand and wrist. “I’ll make it up to you.… Don’t mind Miss Lavery!”

“You are dreadful!” She gave a laugh, her self-possession coming back to her.

“Am I?” He beamed. “Well, I am, sometimes!… But what about you?”

“Oh, I’m awful!” she answered. She drew away her hand, rather slowly, reluctantly. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

She turned on the landing to look down at him. He smiled, his humorous eyes twinkling, and she smiled in return.… Heavens! how extraordinary, how simply extraordinary, how perfectly extraordinary.… She stared at her reflection in the glass. “Naughty” eyes? No—they were beautiful. She had never looked so beautiful—never.… Perhaps he would knock at her door? She locked it.… She combed her hair, and as she did so, began humming, “And—when—I—told—them—” Then she remembered Mrs. Oldkirk in the next room, and stopped. Poor old thing!… She got into bed and lay still, smiling. The wind whispered in the screen, the crickets were singing louder than ever. They liked a hot night like this. Zeek—zeek. Mr. Oldkirk passed along the hall.… Ah, the nice tall man with nice eyes, the very, very nice man!…