CHAPTER XII
THE walk home, down the long country road, under the summer stars, was at an end. Nancy paused decisively at the stile. “Good night,” she said. “I can find my way in alone.”
“I don’t like to leave you, Nancy, for that great black, shuttered house to swallow up.”
“I’m used to it, Mr. Whitman.”
“What will you tell Aunt Roxana about to-night?”
“I’ll tell her—” the Cupid’s bow arched over the white, even teeth.
“Yes,” eagerly, his hand retaining hers.
“That miles aren’t always the same length; that the walk to the village to buy brown ribbon is much longer than the walk back in the evening after the ribbon has been untied.”
“Ah, Nancy.”
But she had darted from him, to run fleetly toward the house, like a Cinderella who hears the strike of the clock. He watched the shadowy form disappear into the deep blackness of the tunneled arbor, hoping to learn through the sound of her great door key in the lock or the flicker of her candle at some window, that she was safe within the lonely dwelling. No such signal came to him, but still he lingered at the gate, his thoughts tumultuous.
To return to the village fête without Nancy, after those wonderful moments together, beneath the old trees, seemed impossible—an anti-climax to an evening that had mounted steadily in significance and enjoyment. How much they had found to say to one another. How much they had left unsaid. He was haunted by the thought that in spite of the long, uninterrupted tête-à-tête, he had let Nancy go without telling her something of the utmost importance. What was it? He searched his memory. Ah, at last he knew. Sweet and disturbing, for the first time the truth swept over him. He wanted to tell Nancy that—he loved her.
His mind leaped to their next meeting, only to be stunned by the thought that his last days in the old town might yield him no opportunity to pour out to Nancy the new and amazing discovery. Against such a possibility his will beat with stubborn resistance, as he pondered the question of how to bring about a tryst. A penciled note, written by the light of a match, and left in the bower, might catch her eye, with slight risk of being found by any one else. He would take that chance; and, having so decided, he strolled down the road until he came to the corner of the hedge that surrounded the estate where the latticed summer house rose black among the shrubbery. In order to leave no betraying footsteps in Aunt Roxana’s realm, he planned to enter by the break in the thicket.
The trees sighed and creaked as he bent his head to creep under their branches. The woodbine that draped Nancy’s bower rustled ominously. The night, under the overhanging boughs of the trees, among the tangle of syringa and lilacs, was an unbroken sheet of black. Suddenly Whitman paused, and looked again. From within the summer house’s inky interior a tiny spark of fire pricked the darkness with an intermittent glow. No man could mistake that light. Whitman stopped short. “A man in the bower,” he said to himself, even before the odor of tobacco mingled with the garden scents. A moment after, a burnt out cigarette was flung carelessly through the brush. A man came to the door and whistled a faint bugle call, softly, persistently. Even in the dim light of stars his service hat, his tight blouse and his high leggins gave to his silhouette a distinctive outline not to be mistaken for that of a civilian.
Caleb Whitman could not have taken a step without betraying his presence. Uncertain what course to pursue, torn with vague fears, he waited. The stone nymph with the broken arm was not more silent than he.
Again the guarded whistle fluted through the silence.
“I’m coming,” cried a sweet voice, down the gravel path. And now Whitman could not have moved had he wished. His feet, his hands, his very tongue in his parched mouth, seemed paralyzed with foreboding.
The boughs overhanging the path parted wide and Nancy’s white form flashed into the grassy plot before the bower.
“Is that you, Bob?” The voice was gay with expectation.
“Yes. A pretty time you’ve kept me waiting. I was just about to give you up.”
Whitman’s hands clenched at the easy nonchalance of that reply, and then his fingers loosened lifelessly; for the girl he loved had tripped toward the waiting soldier and flung her arms about his neck.
“Oh, Bob, Bob, precious,” her voice came to the man who watched. “I’m so happy. Did you get my note?”
“Yes, I got it, Nance; that’s why I’m here. Don’t break my ribs even if you are glad to see me.”
A primitive instinct to grapple with a man who treated Nancy’s love with that easy tolerance swept over Whitman.
“What kept you so late?” The soldier lighted another cigarette. By the glow of the match Whitman recognized the handsome face of Sergeant Wilson with sickening certainty.
“I came home promptly, Bob,” Nancy explained; “but some one who came with me lingered at the gate. I did not dare come out to you until I was sure he had gone.”
“Well, now I’m here, what do you want? I gave up a jolly good game of pool to come.”
The tone was one of affectionate indulgence, with no hint of a lover’s rapture. Its assurance struck a chill to Whitman’s heart.
“I wanted to tell you, Bob, that we can send old Goldstein about his business. Your trouble is over. I have the money.”
“You haven’t!” The soldier seized something which Nancy took from her bosom, felt it, then drew her to him with one strong arm, kissed her soundly, and said: “All I can say is that you’re a brick. How did you do it? Appeal to the Czarina?”
“No, that would have spoiled everything. I did it in my own way. I’ll tell you how some day. Now go, or you’ll be late.”
“Let me go then.” The tone was bantering, but Whitman winced. “I’ll not forget what you’ve done, Nance. I’ll make you proud of me yet. That’s the only way I can repay you.”
“I’ve always known you would, Bob,” she said, sealing the promise with a kiss.
“Good-bye, kid. I’ll be late for ‘check’ if I don’t skip.”
He strode toward the path that led to the stile, with Nancy in his wake. Whitman waited until he heard the sergeant’s gay whistle well down the road before he moved. Then he staggered into the bower, and bowed his head on his arms over the rustic table, his brain whirling with agonizing, discordant thoughts. How long he sat there he could not remember; nor how long it took him to stumble blindly back to the village, silent and sleeping, and out the country road to the Captain’s cottage.
At his step in the house, Miss Abby appeared at her door. “Well,” she said, “Henry and I thought you must have got drowned. I couldn’t sleep for thinking of you.” She held a candle aloft and peered from her room at Whitman, whose step was already on the stair.
“What time does the first train leave for New York to-morrow, Miss Abby?” he asked heavily.
“There’s none until night, unless you want to go over to Fairview with Brother Henry on his first trip and catch the interurban to Adams.”
“Yes, I’ll do that. Something has come up to shorten my vacation. I’m going back to work as quick as I can.”
Miss Abby stared. “Well, for pity’s sakes,” she said.