Part 6

Having paid the driver lavishly, he walked along the little garden path before him, and up some steps to a little veranda. The door opened at once, and a hand reached for his bag.

“Come right in!” entreated a gentle young voice. “This way, please!”

The little house was cool and very dark, every shade pulled down, every shutter closed. Tommy followed the white dress that was ascending the stairs, and was presently led into a dim, breezy room, smelling of verbena.

The white dress flitted over to the window and threw open the shutters.

“There!” she said, looking back over her shoulder and smiling.

That smile! Tommy looked at her, enchanted.

You could see that she was very young, although her figure was almost matronly--short, full, agreeably rounded. She had calm, clear gray eyes, fair hair neatly arranged, a rather pale, chubby face with blunt features, pretty enough; but what was she but a nice, ordinary little country girl in a calico dress? What was there, or could there be, in such a young person to arouse the faintest interest in a man of the world like Tommy?

Ah, it was something to which far more sophisticated souls than his must have succumbed--a lure so flamboyant, a charm so candidly voluptuous!

She was serenely aware of her carnal fascinations. She was ignorant, but not without a certain experience, and she had a fatal sort of instinct. She knew her power, and knew how to employ it.

She looked at Tommy with complete self-possession. She was not in any way awed by his clothes, his eyeglass, or his magnificent air. Indeed, it was he who grew red and confused before the calm gaze of the girl in the calico dress.

“Is there anything you’d like to have, Mr. Ellinger?” she asked politely. “There’s towels--”

“No, not at all!” protested Tommy, in his best manner. “Thanks awfully, but there’s nothing.”

The little thing in the white dress went out.

Tommy unpacked his bag, and then, restless and hungry, wandered about the room, looked out of the window, yawned, whistled, brushed his hair again, wondered what was expected of him. At last a knock at the door, and the gentle young voice said:

“Supper’s ready, Mr. Ellinger!”

She was waiting to show him the way to the dining room. She behaved, in fact, like a very nice little hostess, properly concerned with his comfort. He liked that, of course, and he liked the supper, too. It was a novel sort of meal to Tommy--cold meat, fried potatoes, little glass dishes of preserves and pickles, cakes, pies, strawberries, and coffee, all on the table together.

Old Van Brink and his wife made no impression on him at all. They were what he had expected--what they ought to be. He talked to them in his best manner, genial, very much at ease. He was ingenuously sure that they were kind and honest people, and that they admired him. All his interest centered on the calm little thing across the table.

Supper over, Van Brink retired to a rocking-chair with the newspaper, and his wife began to carry the dishes into the kitchen. The little thing looked at Tommy.

“Would you like to take a little walk?” she asked. “‘Most every one does--down to the village.”

“Charmed!” he assured her, with his inane magnificence. “Will you wait till I get my stick?”

So they set off together down the dark, tree-bordered street. It was cool and very quiet, with a wistful little breeze stirring in the leaves.

“Peaceful, isn’t it?” said Tommy contentedly.

“Oh, yes! I hope it will do you good,” the little thing answered benevolently.

Thanks, said Tommy, there wasn’t much wrong with him--he needed a rest, that was all.

“Well, you’ll get it, here!” said she, with a deep sigh.

“Why? Not much excitement?”

“Oh, you can’t imagine! Year after year!”

He was sorry for her.

“But you’ll be getting married one of these days,” he assured her gallantly.

“There’s no one here to marry,” she said.

They had come into the brightly lighted Main Street, and Tommy became somewhat distrait. He was wondering what sort of impression he was producing on the natives. They were observing him. He saw girls turn to stare after him, and a group of youths on a corner snickered as he passed.

All this pleased him. He swung his stick and strolled on with exquisite indifference. The little thing, he fancied, must be admiring him tremendously.

But she wasn’t. He was undoubtedly causing a sensation, this lofty stranger from the city with his remarkable clothes; but his smooth face was too innocent, his manner, for all its swagger, too ridiculously boyish. He was more or less stupid to this maiden accustomed to the loutish gallantries of the corner loafer, to facile caresses and furtive advances. He was insipid--“slow,” she called him to herself; but of course he could be taught.

Coming to Egbert’s Drug Store, they went in, at Tommy’s suggestion, and each of them had a glass of soda. She did feel a certain triumph then, at his manners and his handful of change.

It was dark when they returned to the house.

“Would you like to sit on the porch?” she asked. “All right! Let’s bring the hammock around.”

So they brought the hammock from the little back garden and slung it on the veranda. They were hidden from the street by a tangle of honeysuckle. The window behind them was unlighted, and there wasn’t a sound from the house. They might have been alone in the universe. No one disturbed them, no one came into sight. There they sat, in the sweet-scented dark, Tommy on the railing, the little white figure swaying in the hammock.

“Don’t you want to smoke?” she asked.

“Thanks!” he answered. “Yes, I will, if you don’t mind.”

“If it’s cigarettes, I’d like to have one, please.”

He was surprised and rather offended, because this wasn’t according to his idea of her.

“Sure it won’t make you sick?” he asked.

“Oh, no!” she answered pleasantly. “We used to smoke at boarding school, you know.”

He proffered a lighted match, and in its glare he caught a glimpse of her face, quietly smiling. Again he was fascinated, suddenly, unexpectedly.

They smoked for some time in silence. Tommy could see her curled up in the hammock, swinging just a little. All of a sudden she sighed.

“Oh, dear!”

“What is it?”

“Nothing much. For goodness’ sake, Mr. Ellinger, how old are you?”

He tried to laugh in an amused way, but he was chagrined and puzzled by her tone.

“Why do you want to know?” he inquired.

“Never mind, if you’d rather not say.”

“I’ve no objection to telling you, my--my dear young lady,” he answered, nettled. “I’m--eighteen.”

“Are you? I’m only sixteen. We’re only kids, aren’t we?”

He didn’t like that. Moreover, he perceived something sinister beneath the words.

“I suppose so,” he assented, in a tone of paternal indulgence.

“Call me ‘Esther,’” said she. “Don’t let’s be silly! What’s _your_ name?”

He hesitated, and finally decided upon “Tom”; but she, like every one else, saw the inevitability of “Tommy.”

There was a long silence. Then out of the dark came her calm little voice.

“Tommy,” she said, “you’re a funny boy!”

“Am I?” he said, with an uneasy laugh.

The situation was quite out of hand now. He didn’t know what was expected of him as a man of the world. He did know, though, that he was failing.

“Tommy,” said she, again, “come and sit here, beside me.”

With a quite artificial alacrity he jumped up, went over to her, and sat down in the hammock, close to her. He called himself a fool, an imbecile, a contemptible ass.

“I ought to kiss her,” he said to himself, “or put my arm around her, or at least hold her hand!”

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t even talk to her. He wanted, above everything else in the world, to run away. He was not flattered or in any way stirred or excited--only miserably ill at ease and instinctively alarmed. He dared not move, even to turn his head.

At last Esther got up with a sigh.

“Good night, Tommy,” she said. “I hope you’ll sleep well!”

“Thanks,” he answered, feeling utterly foolish and miserable.

IV

He did not sleep well. He lay in bed, his hands clasped under his head, looking out at the summer sky.

“She’s a queer girl,” he thought, with a sort of resentment. “She’s bold--runs after a fellow; and yet you can see she doesn’t care two straws for him.”

In long imaginary conversations with Esther he regained his lost advantage. He was affable but cool--very cool. He could see her round little face quite clearly before him, her serene eyes, her neat fair hair.

He awoke after his restless night to a hot, still morning. He could not find a bath tub. Dressing reluctantly, unrefreshed and a bit irritable, he went downstairs. It was a few minutes after eight by his watch--a very decent, early hour, he thought; but, looking into the dining room, he saw only one place laid on the long table.

Mrs. Van Brink hurried in from the kitchen, limp, hot, and painfully anxious.

“Set down to the table, Mr. Ellinger,” she cried in her shrill voice. “I’ll bring your breakfast right off. We’re all done. You won’t have to wait more’n a minute.”

He ate alone, a little resentful that Esther didn’t appear. Then he went out on the porch. No one there--the shady street was quiet and empty. He went around the house to the sun-baked little yard at the back, where he discovered Mrs. Van Brink hanging dish towels on a line in terrible haste. Her face became positively convulsed with worry at the sight of his listlessness.

“Now, then!” she cried. “You don’t know what to do with yourself, I’ll be bound! And I haven’t got a minute to spare, with the dinner I have to get up for Mr. Van Brink at noon. His farm’s four miles off, you know.”

She stared at him, frowning, until an inspiration came.

“Maybe you’d enjoy to play on the harmonium,” she suggested. “Esther’s got some real sweet music.”

Tommy did not know what a harmonium was; but she showed him a queer little organ in the parlor, and he sat before it all the rest of that intolerable morning, picking out tunes and experimenting with the stops.

At noon old Van Brink came driving home in his buggy, and his hot and anxious wife began hurrying back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, bringing in an enormous hot dinner. The farmer had nothing to say to Tommy. He sat there with his napkin tucked in his collar, consuming one dish after the other as fast as his wife brought them in, absorbed and ravenous, like a feeding animal. Now and again Tommy caught the old man’s small blue eyes surveying him with an expression which he could not comprehend, but which he didn’t like.

Van Brink drove off directly after eating, and his wife withdrew to the kitchen again. With growing resentment, Tommy seized his hat and went out, followed the route of the night before, and reached the village. Entering the only hotel, the Gilbert House, he ordered a cocktail and bought a newspaper; but the drink was shockingly bad, and he couldn’t endure the stale dullness of the place long enough to read the paper there.

He had never before in his life suffered from such boredom. He went back to the house, determined to write at once to his uncle and say he couldn’t stand it any longer.

And there, rocking on the porch and enjoying the cool of the afternoon, sat Esther.

“Hello!” she said cheerfully.

“Good afternoon,” he replied stiffly.

“Well! What makes you look so cross?”

“I’ve had a rotten day.”

“I’m sorry; but it wasn’t my fault, was it? You needn’t be cross at me.”

“It was your fault, in a way. You might have told me what there is to do in this place.”

“Oh, but there isn’t anything! I’ll take you for a walk after supper, if you want.”

So after supper, when Mrs. Van Brink had gone back to the kitchen, and her husband, in stocking feet, sat reading his newspaper, Esther and Tommy set out again.

“Shall we go right out in the country?” Esther asked him. “Or would you rather go through the village and see some of the fine houses?”

Tommy preferred the country.

They turned north, followed the dark and quiet street past all the little houses, and into a road soft with dust, under the black shadow of great trees, with a sweet breeze blowing from the meadows.

“One day’s enough for you,” said Esther. “How would you like to spend _years_ here?”

“By Jove! How do you stand it?”

“Well, I won’t, any longer than I can help!”

They were going uphill steadily. The fields were left behind, and the pine forest was closing in on them, dark and fragrant.

“This is my favorite walk,” said Esther. “I often come here by myself.”

“Rather lonely, isn’t it?”

“I’m never lonely.”

Again that vague alarm came over the boy. He felt defenseless, lost. He dreaded to go farther; but, chattering pleasantly, Esther went on and on, and he had to answer and to follow.

The road grew rougher, and his little comrade stumbled often.

“Hadn’t we better turn back?” suggested Tommy. “You’ll be tired.”

“Oh, no! I don’t call _this_ far!”

“And it’s getting late. Your mother and father--”

She laughed.

“You needn’t worry about them! Let’s sit down and rest a few minutes, if you like.”

There was a great flat rock a little way up the bank from the roadway. Sitting there, they could catch a glimpse of an enormous orange-colored moon through the branches.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” said Esther. “And doesn’t my ring look pretty in the moonlight?”

She held up a plump little hand for him to see.

“Are you engaged?” he asked, for even he knew that the question was expected of him.

“Yes--to the young man you saw last night in the drug store. It’s a secret, though; mommer and popper don’t know.”

“I hope you’ll be happy,” said Tommy, after a pause.

“I don’t see how I can be,” she answered plaintively. “I don’t really like him; but oh, dear, what else can I do? Why, I’ve only seen one real _refined_ man in all my life. He was a traveling salesman. He wanted to marry me and go and live in New York; but popper wouldn’t let me. He said I was too young.”

“Well, you know, you are, rather. You don’t want to be hasty, my dear young lady!”

She sighed.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this; but I’m so unhappy!”

He felt very sympathetic, but could think of nothing to say.

“I’m going to take off this ring now, while I’m with you,” Esther went on. “I want to forget all about Will for a while.” She slipped her warm little hand into his. “Oh, Tommy!” she said coaxingly. “Be nice, won’t you?”

The light of the moon shone clearly on her pretty upturned face, her white throat. He stared and stared at her. She leaned back, more and more, until her head was resting on his breast and her smooth hair brushed his lips.

The first wave of some immense and terrible emotion, something he had never before experienced, came rushing over him. He clenched his hands, struggling against a fierce desire to push her away.

“What are you doing to me?” he wanted to shout. “What’s happening to me? Go away! Get out!”

But she did not stir. She rested against him, contented as a kitten, soft, gentle, and still. Little by little his mood changed, his panic was allayed, and he bent over and kissed her. Then he wanted never to let her go again. He kissed her violently, time after time. He couldn’t stop.

A sort of madness possessed him. A terror greater than ever assailed him--a terror of himself. He knew he wasn’t to be trusted. He put her aside brusquely and got up.

“Come on!” he said. “It’s late. Let’s go back!”

V

He sat at the open window of his room that night, oppressed by guilt and dread.

“I shouldn’t have kissed her,” he said to himself. “Now she’ll think I’m in love with her.”

He knew well enough that he was not. He disliked her--almost loathed her; she was so soft and clinging, so irresistible and so inferior. He didn’t want to see her again.

He hadn’t yet been able to devise a suitable attitude when he met her the next morning. Seeing her so perfectly unmoved helped him, and they sat down to breakfast in friendly accord.

“It’s another hot day,” she said. “Mommer thought maybe you’d enjoy a picnic.”

“A picnic--just you and me?” he asked suspiciously.

She nodded, and waited for his reply, watching his face with candid eyes. He grew red and hot.

“Very nice idea,” he said loftily.

He was racking his brains for some means of avoiding the excursion.

“Not if I know it!” he said to himself. “She won’t get me alone again!”

But his reflection in a distant mirror caught his eye. What? Here he was, six feet tall, dressed in absolutely the latest fashion, a thorough man of the world, and yet uneasy in the presence of this sixteen-year-old country girl! “Dumpy,” he called her--stolid, ignorant, rustic, in a cheap cotton frock.

His good humor came back. He smiled down upon her kindly, all alarm gone. Let her make love to him if she liked--there was no harm in it.

They started directly after breakfast, walked mile after mile through the fields in the full glare of the hot August sun, up stony hills, through bramble-lined woodland paths, until Tommy, carrying the big lunch basket and a walking stick, and wearing a rather heavy Norfolk jacket--the only correct thing for picnics--was dazed and tired. Not Esther, though; she was as fresh and cheerful as ever.

In the course of time they reached the place predestined by her for lunching--a little clearing on the slope of the pine-covered mountain, a sort of sunny nest in the forest, where a brook ran by, rapid and cool.

When he had at last satisfied his appetite--a strangely hearty and indiscriminate one for such a man of the world--Tommy lay back against a sun-warmed stone, smoking a cigarette and looking up at the bright sky. It was nice to have Esther there, he admitted to himself. It was nice to see her, contented and blessedly quiet, sitting beside him.

He turned his head to see her better. What a round, pretty, white throat she had! And her lashes were almost dark against her cheeks. He was annoyed by a sudden great longing to kiss her again. He tried to put the thought out of his mind--tried desperately; but in some inexplicable way, even as she sat there with her eyes closed and her little face so tranquil, she conveyed the fact to him that she was waiting to be kissed.

He did it, with a violence surprising to them both. She struggled half-heartedly, then settled down, close to his side, with his arm about her, and said no more. He kissed her again and again, stroked her hair, looked at her in delight. Dear, gentle, ardent little soul! Truly it was an afternoon on Olympus!

Tommy was done for now. She had awakened his innocent, primitive manhood, had aroused in him a feeling which he was too immature to appraise. He believed that he was, that he must be, in love with her. How otherwise explain his joy in kissing her, his immeasurable admiration for her charms?

“By Jove!” he said to himself. “I’m _in love_!”

He said it with amazement, with pride, with profound distress, because his passion tormented him. He was ashamed of it. He knew very well that it was not spontaneous; Esther had forced its growth. He had not wooed and won her; he had been captured in a most obvious way. He was a slave, and he knew and resented it.

Not that Esther was at all a difficult lady to serve. She had no whims, no caprices. She was neither jealous nor exacting. Indeed, she required nothing at all of Tommy. She let him alone. She was very affectionate, whenever he was; but if he were moody or anxious, she was peacefully silent.

There was always an air of content about her. She might have been the personified ideal of the man of forty--the woman who is always responsive, and yet who exacts nothing. Very, very different from the ideal of generous eighteen!

Precious little joy did poor Tommy find in this his first love. He was perplexed and confused; he couldn’t imagine any sort of end to it. He couldn’t contemplate marrying Esther, and the idea of any other sort of arrangement never occurred to him. In his eyes she was simply a respectable young girl, under her father’s roof, not good enough, or not suitable, to be the wife of a man of the world, but far too good to be thought of in any improper way.

He didn’t even know what he wanted--whether he wanted to leave her, or whether he couldn’t live without her. He was weary beyond measure, those hot and sleepless August nights.

VI

At last, one evening, there came a sort of crisis. It was a sultry, rainy night, and they were in the little parlor, bored and constrained by the presence of old Van Brink in the next room, with the door open. Esther had been playing hymn tunes on the harmonium, and Tommy had been watching her, feverishly impatient to kiss her. She had stopped playing, and they sat in silence, listening to the squeak of the old man’s rocking-chair and the rustle of his newspaper.

The room irritated Tommy by its amazing tastelessness. Even Esther looked different in it, he thought. Outside, under the summer sky, alone with him, she was a goddess. In here, what was she more than the plump, phlegmatic Esther Van Brink?

A door opened, and Mrs. Van Brink came in to her husband, her work in the kitchen finished until the next sunrise. She looked exhausted. It occurred to Tommy, not for the first time, that Esther was not a remarkably kind daughter. He had never yet seen her do any sort of work for her mother.

Immediately, with artless tact, Mrs. Van Brink closed the door. Tommy sprang up and caught Esther in his arms.

“My!” she cried, laughing. “Aren’t you in a hurry, though?”

Tommy reddened, painfully aware of his disadvantage.

“I don’t know what you’ll do to-morrow evening,” Esther went on. “Will Egbert’s coming to see me.”

Tommy could scarcely grasp the idea. An evening without Esther! Another man! He was silent for some time. He realized then that he would rather marry Esther than lose her, than be supplanted by any Will Egbert.

“Look here, Esther!” he said at last. “I know I haven’t any right to complain. I’m not--anything to you; but I’d like you to know something. Before I came here, my uncle--”

He paused so long that Esther frowned.

“Yes?” she said. “What about your uncle, Tommy?”

“He warned me--told me I couldn’t get engaged, or anything of that sort. You understand, don’t you, Esther? You see, I haven’t any income. I depend on him, and I _know_, very well, that he’d never consent to--to anything.”

She didn’t answer.

“I’ve thought it over a great deal,” he went on; “but I don’t know what to do exactly.”