CHAPTER VI
SOUTHLOOK
Sara Wrandall's house in the country stood on a wooded knolloverlooking the Sound. It was rather remotely located, so far asneighbours were concerned. Her father, Sebastian Gooch, shrewdlyforesaw the day when land in this particular section of the suburbanworld would return dollars for the pennies, and wisely boughtthousands of acres: woodland, meadowland, beachland and hills,inserted between the environs of New York City and the rich townsup the coast. Years afterward he built a commodious summer home onthe choicest point that his property afforded, named it Southlook,and transformed that particular part of his wilderness intoa millionaire's paradise, where he could dawdle and putter to hisheart's content, where he could spend his time and his money witha prodigality that came so late in life to him that he made wasteof both in his haste to live down a rather parsimonious past.
Two miles and a half away, in the heart of a scattered colony ofpurse-proud New Yorkers, was the country home of the Wrandalls, animposing place and older by far than Southlook. It had descendedfrom well-worn and time-stained ancestors to Redmond Wrandall,and, with others of its kind, looked with no little scorn upon themodern, mushroom structures that sprouted from the seeds of trade.There was no friendship between the old and the new. Each hadrecourse to a bitter contempt for the other, though consolationwas small in comparison.
It was in the wooded by-ways of this despised domain that ChallisWrandall and Sara, the earthly daughter of Midas, met and loved anddefied all things supernal, for matches are made in heaven. Theirmarriage did not open the gates of Nineveh. Sebastian Gooch'sparadise was more completely ostracised than it was before thedisaster. The Wrandalls spoke of it as a disaster.
Clearly the old merchant was not over-pleased with his daughter'schoice, a conclusion permanently established by the alteration hemade in his will a year or two after the marriage. True, he leftthe vast estate to his beloved daughter Sara, but he fastened astout string to it, and with this string her hands were tied. Itmust have occurred to him that Challis was a profligate in more waysthan one, for he deliberately stipulated in his will that Sara wasnot to sell a foot of the ground until a period of twenty years hadelapsed. A very polite way, it would seem, of making his investmentsafe in the face of considerable odds.
He lived long enough after the making of his will, I am happy torelate, to find that he had made no mistake. As he preceded hisson-in-law into the Great Beyond by a scant three years, it readilymay be seen that he wrought too well by far. Seventeen unnecessaryyears of proscription remained, and he had not intended them forSara ALONE. He was not afraid of Sara, but for her.
When the will was read and the condition revealed, Challis Wrandalltook it in perfect good humour. He had the grace to proclaimin the bosom of his father's family that the old gentleman was afather-in-law to be proud of. "A canny old boy," he had announcedwith his most engaging smile, quite free from rancour or resentment.Challis was well acquainted with himself.
And so the acres were strapped together snugly and firmly, withoutso much as a town-lot protruding.
So impressed was Challis by the farsightedness of his father-in-lawthat he forthwith sat him down and made a will of his own. He wouldnot have it said that Sara's father did a whit better by her thanhe would do. He left everything he possessed to his wife, but putno string to it, blandly implying that all danger would be pastwhen she came into possession. There was a sort of grim humour inthe way he managed to present himself to view as the real and readysource of peril.
Among certain of the Wrandall clan there was serious talk ofcontesting the will. It was a distinct shock to all of them. Someone made bold to assert that Challis was not in his right mind atthe time it was executed. For that matter, a couple of uncles onhis mother's side were of the broad opinion that he never had beenmentally adequate.
During a family conference four days after the funeral, Leslielaunched forth at some length and with considerable heat, expressingan opinion that met with small favour at the outset but which hadits results later on.
"Why," he declaimed, standing before the fireplace with his handsin his pockets, "if Sara dreamed that we even so much as contemplatemaking a fuss about Chal's will, she'd up and chuck the whole bloominglegacy in our faces, and be glad to do it. She's got plenty of herown. She doesn't need the little that Challis left her. Then, whatwould we look like, tell me that? What would the world say? Why,it would say that she didn't think our money was clean enough tomix with old man Gooch's. She'd throw it in our faces and the wholetown would snicker."
"Figuratively speaking, young man, figuratively speaking," saidone of the uncles, a stockholder and director.
"What do you mean by that?"
"That she--ahem! That she couldn't actually THROW it."
"I'm not so literal as you, Uncle George."
"Then why use the word THROW?"
"Of course, Uncle George, I don't mean to say she'd have it reducedto gold coin and stand off and take shots at us. You understandthat, don't you?"
"Leslie," put in his father, "you have a most distressing wayof--er--putting it. Your Uncle George is not so dense as all that."
"I didn't use the word 'throw' in the first place," said Leslie,with a shrug. "I said 'chuck.'"
"I distinctly heard you use the word 'throw,'" said Uncle George,very red in the face.
"It was on the second occasion, George," said Mrs. Wrandall, loyalto Leslie.
"In either case," said her son, "we'd be made ridiculous. That'sthe long and short of it. Even if she HANDED it to us on a silverplate,--figuratively speaking, Uncle George,--we'd be made to looklike thirty cents."
"Well, I'm damn--" began Uncle George, almost forgetting where hewas, but remembering in time. He was afraid to utter a word forthe next ten minutes, and Leslie was spared the interruptions.
It was decided that the will should stand. Later on, the alarmingprospect of Sara's perfect right to marry again came up to mar thepeace of mind of all the Wrandalls, and it grew to be horribly realwithout a single move on her part to warrant the fears they wereencouraging.
Sara and Hetty did not stay long in town. The newspapers announcedthe return of Challis Wrandall's widow and reporters sought herout for interviews. The old interest was revived and columns wereprinted about the murder at Burton's Inn, with sharp editorialcomments on the failure of the police to clear up the mystery.
The woods were green and the earth was redolent of rich springodours; wild flowers peeped shyly from the leaf-strewn soil in theshadow of the trees; some, more bold than others, came down tothe roadway, and from the banks and hedges smiled saucily upon allwho passed; the hillsides were like spotless carpets, the meadowsa riot of clover hues. The world was light with the life of thenew-born year, for who shall say that the year does not begin withthe birth of spring? May! May, when the earth begins to bear, notJanuary when it sets out in sorrow to bury its dead. New Year'sday it is, when the first tiny flower of spring comes to life andsmiles oh the face of Mother Earth, and the sun is warm with thelove of a gentle father.
"I shall ask Leslie down for the week-end," said Sara, the thirdday after their arrival in the country. The house was huge andlonely, and time hung rather heavily despite the glorious upliftof spring.
Hetty looked up quickly from her book. A look of dismay flickeredin her eyes for an instant and then gave way to the calmness thathad come to dwell in their depths of late. Her lips parted in thesudden impulse to cry out against the plan, but she checked thewords. For a moment, her dark, questioning eyes studied the faceof her benefactress; then, as if nothing had been revealed to her,she allowed her gaze to drift pensively out toward the sunset sea.
They were sitting on the broad verandah overlooking the Sound. Thedusk of evening was beginning to steal over the earth. She laidher book aside.
"Will you telephone in to him after dinner, Hetty?" went on Sara,after a long period of silence.
Again Hetty started. This time a look of actual pain flashed in
her eyes.
"Would not a note by post be more certain to find him in the--"she began hurriedly.
"I dislike writing notes," said Sara calmly. "Of course, dear, ifyou feel that you'd rather not telephone to him, I can--"
"I dare say I am finicky, Sara," apologised Hetty in quick contrition."Of course, he is your brother. I should remem--"
"My brother-in-law, dear," said Sara, a trifle too literally.
"He will come often to your house," went on Hetty rapidly. "I mustmake the best of it."
"He is your friend, Hetty. He admires you."
"I cannot see him through your eyes, Sara."
"But he IS charming and agreeable, you'll admit," persisted theother.
"He is very kind, and he is devoted to you. I should like him forthat."
"You have no cause for disliking him."
"I do not dislike him. I--I am--Oh, you always have been sothoughtful, so considerate, Sara, I can't understand your failingto see how hard it is for me to--to--well, to endure his open-heartedfriendship."
Sara was silent for a moment. "You draw a pretty fine line, Hetty,"she said gently.
Hetty flushed. "You mean that there is little to choose betweenwife and brother? That isn't quite fair. You know everything, heknows nothing. I wear a mask for him; you have seen into the veryheart of me. It isn't the same."
Sara came over and stood beside the girl's chair. After a moment ofindecision, she laid her hand on Hetty's shoulder. The girl lookedup, the ever-recurring question in her eyes.
"We haven't spoken of--of these things in many months, Hetty."
"Not since Mrs. Wrandall and Vivian came to Nice. I was upset--dreadfullyupset then, Sara. I don't know how I managed to get through withit."
"But you managed it," pronounced Sara. Her fingers seemed to tightensuddenly on the girl's shoulder. "I think we were quite wonderful,both of us. It wasn't easy for me."
"Why did we come back to New York, Sara?" burst out Hetty, claspingher friend's hand as if suddenly spurred by terror. "We were happyover there. And free!"
"Listen, my dear," said Sara, a hard note growing in her voice:"this is my home. I do not love it, but I can see no reason forabandoning it. That is why we came back to New York."
Hetty pressed her friend's hand to her lips. "Forgive me," shecried impulsively. "I shouldn't have complained. It was detestable."
"Besides," went on Sara evenly, "you were quite free to remain onthe other side. I left it to you."
"You gave me a week to decide," said Hetty, in a hurried manner ofspeaking. "I--I took but twenty-four hours--less than that. Overnight, you remember. I love you, Sara. I could not leave you. Allthat night I could feel you pulling at my heart-strings, pullingme closer and closer, and holding me. You were in your room, I inmine, and yet all the time you seemed to be bending over me in thedarkness, urging me to stay with you and love you and be loved byyou. It couldn't have been a dream."
"It was not a dream," said Sara, with a queer smile.
"You DO love me?" tensely.
"I DO love you," was the firm answer. Sara was staring out acrossthe water, her eyes big and as black as night itself. She seemedto be looking far beyond the misty lights that bobbled with nearbyschooners, far beyond the yellow mass on the opposite shore wherea town lay cradled in the shadows, far into the fast darkening skythat came up like a wall out of the east.
Hetty's fingers tightened in a warmer clasp. Unconsciously perhaps,Sara's grip on the girl's shoulder tightened also: unconsciously,for her thoughts were far away. The younger woman's pensive gazerested on the peaceful waters below, taking in the slow approach ofthe fog that was soon to envelop the land. Neither spoke for manyminutes: inscrutable thinkers, each a prey to thoughts that leapedbackward to the beginning and took up the puzzle at its inception.
"I wonder--" began Hetty, her eyes narrowing with the intensity ofthought. She did not complete the sentence.
Sara answered the unspoken question. "It will never be differentfrom what it is now, unless you make it so."
Hetty started. "How could you have known what I was thinking?" shecried in wonder.
"It is what you are always thinking, my dear. You are always askingyourself when will I turn against you."
"Sara!"
"Your own intelligence should supply the answer to all the questionsyou are asking of yourself. It is too late for me to turn againstyou." She abruptly removed her hand from Hetty's shoulder and walkedto the edge of the verandah. For the first time, the English girlwas conscious of pain. She drew her arm up and cringed. She pulledthe light scarf about her bare shoulders.
The butler appeared in the doorway.
"The telephone, if you please, Miss Castleton. Mr. Leslie Wrandallis calling."
The girl stared. "For me, Watson?"
"Yes, Miss. I forgot to say that he called up this afternoon whileyou were out," very apologetically, with a furtive glance at Mrs.Wrandall, who had turned.
"Loss of memory, Watson, is a fatal affliction," she said, with asmile.
"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall. I don't see 'ow it 'appened."
"It is not likely to happen again."
"No, madam."
Hetty had risen, visibly agitated.
"What shall I say to him, Sara?" she cried.
"Apparently it is he who has something to say to you," said theother, still smiling. "Wait and see what it is. Please don't neglectto say that we'd like to have him over Sunday."
"A box of flowers has just come up from the station for you, Miss,"said Watson.
Hetty was very white as she passed into the house. Mrs. Wrandallresumed her contemplation of the fog-screened Sound.
"Shall I fetch you a wrap, ma'am?" asked Watson, hesitating.
"I am coming in, Watson. Open the box of flowers for Miss Castleton.Is there a fire in the library?"
"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall."
"Mr. Leslie will be out on Saturday. Tell Mrs. Conkling."
"The evening train, ma'am?"
"No. The eleven-thirty. He will be here for luncheon."
When Hetty hurried into the library a few minutes later, hermanner was that of one considerably disturbed by something thathas transpired almost on the moment. Her cheeks were flushed andher eyes were reflectors of a no uncertain distress of mind. Mrs.Wrandall was standing before the fireplace, an exquisite figurein the slinky black evening gown which she affected in these days.Her perfectly modelled neck and shoulders gleamed like pink marblein the reflected glow of the burning logs. She wore no jewellery,but there was a single white rose in her dark hair, where it hadbeen placed by the whimsical Hetty an hour earlier as they leftthe dinner table.
"He is coming out on the eleven-thirty, Sara," said the girlnervously, "unless you will send the motor in for him. The body ofhis car is being changed and it's in the shop. He must have beenjesting when he said he would pay for the petrol--I should havesaid gasoline."
Sara laughed. "You will know him better, my dear," she said. "Leslieis very light-hearted."
"He suggested bringing a friend," went on Hetty hurriedly. "A Mr.Booth, the portrait painter."
"I met him in Italy. He is charming. You will like HIM, too, Hetty."The emphasis did not escape notice.
"It seems that he is spending a fortnight in the village, this Mr.Booth, painting spring lambs for rest and recreation, Mr. Lesliesays."
"Then he is at our very gates," said Sara, looking up suddenly.
"I wonder if he can be the man I saw yesterday at the bridge,"mused Hetty. "Is he tall?"
"I really can't say. He's rather vague. It was six or seven yearsago."
"It was left that Mr. Wrandall is to come out on the eleven-thirty,"explained Hetty. "I thought you wouldn't like sending either ofthe motors in."
"And Mr. Booth?"
"We are to send for him after Mr. Wrandall arrives. He is stoppingat the inn, wherever that may be."
"Poor fellow!" sighed Sara, with a grimace. "I am sure he will likeus immensely if he has been stop
ping at the inn."
Hetty stood staring down at the blazing logs for a full minutebefore giving expression to the thought that troubled her.
"Sara," she said, meeting her friend's eyes with a steady lightin her own, "why did Mr. Wrandall ask for me instead of you? It isyou he is coming to visit, not me. It is your house. Why should--"
"My dear," said Sara glibly, "I am merely his sister-in-law. Itwouldn't be necessary to ask me if he should come. He knows he iswelcome."
"Then why should he feel called upon to--"
"Some men like to telephone, I suppose," said the other coolly.
"I wonder if you will ever understand how I feel about--aboutcertain things, Sara."
"What, for instance?"
"Well, his very evident interest in me," cried the girl hotly. "Hesends me flowers,--this is the second box this week,--and he is sokind, so VERY friendly, Sara, that I can't bear it--I really can't."
Mrs. Wrandall stared at her. "You can't very well send him abouthis business," she said, "unless he becomes more than friendly.Now, can you?"
"But it seems so--so horrible, so beastly," groaned the girl.
Sara faced her squarely. "See here, Hetty," she said levelly, "wehave made our bed, you and I. We must lie in it--together. If LeslieWrandall chooses to fall in love with you, that is his affair, notours. We must face every condition. In plain words, we must playthe game."
"What could be more appalling than to have him fall in love withme?"
"The other way 'round would be more dramatic, I should say."
"Good God, Sara!" cried the girl in horror. "How can you even speakof such a thing?"
"After all, why shouldn't--" began Sara, but stopped in the middleof her suggestion, with the result that it had its full effect withoutbeing uttered in so many cold-blooded words. The girl shuddered.
"I wish, Sara, you would let me unburden myself completely to you,"she pleaded, seizing her friend's hands. "You have forbidden me--"
Sara jerked her hands away. Her eyes flashed. "I do not want tohear it," she cried fiercely. "Never, never! Do you understand?It is your secret. I will not share it with you. I should hate youif I knew everything. As it is, I love you because you are a womanwho suffered at the hand of one who made me suffer. There is nothingmore to say. Don't bring up the subject again. I want to be yourfriend for ever, not your confidante. There is a distinction. Youmay be able to see how very marked it is in our case, Hetty. Whatone does not know, seldom hurts."
"But I want to justify myself--"
"It isn't necessary," cut in the other so peremptorily that thegirl's eyes spread into a look of anger. Whereupon Sara Wrandallthrew her arm about her and drew her down beside her on thechaise-longue. "I didn't mean to be harsh," she cried. "We mustnot speak of the past, that's all. The future is not likely to hurtus, dear. Let us avoid the past."
"The future!" sighed the girl, staring blankly before her.
"To appreciate what it is to be," said the other, "you have but tothink of what it might have been."
"I know," said Hetty, in a low voice. "And yet I sometimes wonderif--"
Sara interrupted. "You are paying me, dear, instead of the law,"she said gently. "I am not a harsh creditor, am I?"
"My life belongs to you. I give it cheerfully, even gladly."
"So you have said before. Well, if it belongs to me, you might atleast permit me to develop it as I would any other possession. Itake it as an investment. It will probably fluctuate."
"Now you are jesting!"
"Perhaps," said Sara laconically.
The next morning Hetty set forth for her accustomed tramp over theroads that wound through the estate. Sara, the American, dawdledat home, resenting the chill spring drizzle that did not in theleast discourage the Englishwoman. The mistress of the house andof the girl's destiny stood in the broad French window watching heras she strode springily, healthily down the maple lined avenue inthe direction of the gates. The gardeners doffed their caps to heras she passed, and also looked after her with surreptitious glances.
There was a queer smile on Sara's lips that remained long after thegirl was lost to view beyond the lodge. It was still on her lipsbut gone from her eyes as she paused beside the old English tableto bury her nose in one of the gorgeous roses that Leslie had sentout to Hetty the day before. They were all about the room, dozensof them. The girl had insisted on having them downstairs instead ofin her own little sitting-room, for which they plainly were intended.
A nasty sea turn had brought lowering grey skies and a dreary,enveloping mist that never quite assumed the dignity of a drizzleand yet blew wet and cold to the very marrow of the bones. Hettywas used to such weather. Her English blood warmed to it. As shestrode briskly across the meadow-land road in the direction of thewoods that lay ahead, a soft ruddy glow crept up to her cheeks,and a sparkle of joy into her eyes. She walked strongly, rapidly.Her straight, lithe young figure was a joyous thing to behold.High boots, short skirt, a loose jacket and a broad felt hat madeup her costume. She was graceful, adorable; a young, healthy,beautiful creature in whom the blood surged quickly, strongly: thetype of woman men are wont to classify as "ineffably feminine,"though why we should differentiate is no small mystery unlessthere really is such a thing as one woman possessing an adorablyfeminine quality denied to her sisters. Be that as it may, thereIS a distinction and men pride themselves on knowing it. Hetty wasalluringly feminine. Leaving out the matter of morals, whateverthey are, and coming right up to her as an example of her sex, pureand simple if you please, we are bound to say that she was perfect.The best thing we can say of Challis Wrandall is that he took thesame view of her that we should, and fell in love with her. Hewould have married her if he could, there isn't much doubt as tothat, no matter what she had been before he knew her or what shewas at the time of his discovery. No more is it to be consideredunique that his brother should have experienced a similar interestin her, knowing even less.
She was the sort of girl one falls in love with and remembers itthe rest of his life.
Take her now, for instance, as she swings along the highway, fresh,trim and graceful, her chin uptilted, her cheeks warm, her eyesclear and as blue as sapphires, and we experience the most intense,unreasoning desire to be near her, at her side, where hands couldtouch her and the very spell of her creep out over one to make aman of him.
The kind of woman one wants to draw close to him because his heartis sweet.
She had the blood of a fellow creature on her hands--the blood ofone of us--and yet we men will overlook one commandment for another.It is a matter of choice.
What of her present position in the house and in the heart of theone woman who of all those we know is abnormally unfeminine in thatshe subordinates the natural and instinctive animosity of womantoward another who robs her of a husband, no matter how unworthyor how hateful he may have been to her behind the screen with whichshe hides her sores from the world. The answer is ready: Hettywas a slave bound to an extraordinary condition. There had been nocoercion on the part of Challis Wrandall's wife; no actual restrainthad been set upon the girl. The situation was a plain one from everypoint of view: Hetty owed her life to Sara, she would have paidwith her life's blood the debt she owed. It had become perfectlynatural for her to consider herself a willing, grateful prisoner--aprisoner on parole. She would not, could not abuse the parole. Sheloved her gaoler with a love that knew no bounds; she loved thewalls Sara had thrown up about her; she was content to live anddie in the luxurious cell, attended by love and kindness and mercy.After all, Hetty was even more feminine than we seem able to conveyin words.
Not in that she lacked in pride or sensitiveness, but that shepossessed to a self-satisfying degree the ability to subordinateboth of these to a loyalty that had no bounds. There were finefeelings in Hetty. She was honest with herself. She did not lookbeyond her present horizon for brighter skies. They were as brightas they could ever be, of that she was sure; her hopes lay withinthe small circumference that Sara
Wrandall made possible for her.She knew that her peril, her ruin lay in the desire to step outsidethat narrow circle, for out there the world was cold and merciless.
She lived as one charmed by some powerful influence, and was content.Not once had the fear entered her soul that Sara would turn againsther. Her trust in Wrandall's wife was infinite. In her simple,devoted heart she could feel no prick of dread so far as the presentwas concerned. The past was dreadful, but it was the past, and itsloathsomeness was moderated by subtle contrast with the present.As for the future, it belonged to Sara Wrandall. It was safe.
If Sara were to decide that she must be given up to the law, allwell and good. She could meet her fate with a smile for Sara, andwith love in her heart. She could pay in full if the demand wasmade by the wife of the man she had left in the grim little upstairsroom at Burton's Inn on that never-to-be-forgotten night in March.
The one great, inexplicable mystery to her was the heart of SaraWrandall. She could not fathom it.
She could understand her own utter subjection to the will of theother woman; she could explain it satisfactorily to herself, andshe could have explained it to the world. Self-preservation in thebeginning, self-surrender as time went on, self-sacrifice as theprerogative.
And so it was, on this grey spring day, that she gazed undaunted atthe world, with the shadows all about her, and hummed a sprightlytune through warm red lips that were kissed by the morning mist.
She came to the bridge by the mill, long since deserted and nowa thing of ruin and decay. A man in knickerbockers stood leaningagainst the rail, idly gazing down at the trickling stream below.The brier pipe that formed the circuit between hand and lips sentup soft blue coils to float away on the drizzle.
She passed behind him, with a single furtive, curious glance athis handsome, undisturbed profile, and in that glance recognisedhim as the man she had seen the day before.
When she was a dozen rods away, the tall man turned his face fromthe stream and sent after her the long-restrained look. There wassomething akin to cautiousness in that look of his, as if he wereafraid that she might turn her head suddenly and catch him at it.Something began stirring in his heart, the nameless something thatawakens when least expected. He felt the subtle, sweet femininityof her as she passed. It lingered with him as he looked.
She turned the bend in the road a hundred yards away. For manyminutes he studied the stream below without really seeing it.Then he straightened up, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and setoff slowly in her wake, although he had been walking in quite theopposite direction when he came to the bridge,--and on a missionof some consequence, too.
There was the chance that he would meet her coming back.