Chambers Robert William
Blue-Bird Weather
That was the kind of a man he had been a week ago. What was he now—to-night—here in this waste corner of the world with the light from a kitchen window blazing on him as though it were the flashing splendor streaming through the barred portals of paradise? Was it possible that he, John Benton Marche, could be actually in love—in love with the daughter of his own game warden—with a girl who served him at supper in apron and gingham, who served him further in hip boots and ragged jacket—this modern Rosalind of the marshes, as fresh and innocent, as modest and ardent, as she of the Arden glades?
The kitchen door opened, and Molly Herold came down the steps and straight toward him, unthinkingly, almost instinctively, laying her hands in his as he met her under the leafless China tree in the yard.
"I was longer than usual to-night," she said, "trying to soften my hands with that cold cream you so kindly sent for." She lifted them in the starlight with a little laugh. "They're a trifle better, I think," she said, "but they're always in water, you know, either there," she glanced around at the kitchen, "or yonder with the decoys. But thank you all the same," she added brightly. "Are you going to have another delightful talk, now?"
"Do you care to?"
"Of course. The idea of my not caring to talk to you," she said, laughing at the absurdity. "Shall we go into the sitting room, or walk in the starlight? There are no snakes out, yet," she assured him, "though if this weather holds, the moccasins will come out."
"We'll walk down to the shore," he said.
"One moment, then." She turned and sped to the house, reappearing, after a few minutes, wearing her ragged shooting coat.
"Is your father comfortable?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you."
"Do you think he might want you?"
"No. Jim sleeps next to him, and he is preparing for bed, now." She smiled. "What a darling my brother is, isn't he, Mr. Marche?"
"He's a fine boy."
They moved on together, down the rutted lane, between dismantled fences and ragged, leafless hedges. She was lithe and light and sure footed, but once or twice, as they skirted puddles, he supported her; and the touch of his hand on her body almost unnerved him. Never had he dreamed that contact with any woman could so thrill, so exquisitely shock. And every instant he was falling deeper and deeper in love with her. He knew it—realized it—made no effort to avoid it, fight it off, control it. It was only his speech and manner that he held desperately under bit and curb, letting his heart go to everlasting smash and his reason run riot. And what on earth would be the end he could not imagine, for he was leaving for the North in the morning, and he had not yet told her.
As they came out upon the shore, the dory loomed up, beached, a dark silhouette against the starlit water. She laid her hands on the stern and vaulted lightly to her perch, sliding along to make room for Marche.
From far away in the sound came the confused murmur of wild fowl feeding. Except for that, and the ceaseless monotone of the outer sea, there was no sound, not even the lap of water against the bow.
Marche, who had been leaning forward, head bent as though watching the water, turned to the girl abruptly. "I want to do something for—Jim," he said.
The girl looked up at him, not understanding.
"Will your father let me?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"I mean that I want to send him to a good school—a good boys' school in the North."
She caught her breath, was silent for a moment, then, amazed: "Would you do that? Oh, I've wished for it—dreamed of it! But—how can you? You are so kind—so good to us—but how could we—accept?"
"That's why I want to see your father."
"For that! Was it really for that, Mr. Marche?"
"Yes—partly." He swallowed and looked the other way, for the girl's excited face was very near his own as she bent forward to search his eyes for the least change of expression—bent nearer as though to reassure herself that he meant it seriously. For an instant her soft breath made the night air fragrant; he felt it, faint and fresh on his cheek, and turned sharply, biting his lips lest he lose all self-control.
"Could you and your father spare him?" he asked carelessly.
"Oh, if you only would give him that chance!" she cried. "But—tell me—how can we accept such a thing of you? Is it possible?"
"Would you accept it?" he asked, turning toward her.
The question startled her. She looked at him, striving to think clearly, trying to see this offered miracle through calm, impartial eyes.
"I—I would do anything—almost—for Jim," she said. "I'd have no pride left, if his chances lay in the balance. But men—my father—may be different."
He said slowly: "Suppose I offered the same chance to you?"
"What!" she said crisply.
"Suppose I offered you a college finishing, Miss Herold. Would you accept?"
She slowly grew scarlet under his gaze. "That would be insulting," she said, in a low voice.
"Why, when only kindness is meant—as I mean it for Jim?"
"It is not the same. I am a grown woman capable of caring for myself. Such an offer, however kindly meant, could only hurt me, humiliate me—and—I thought you found me companionable as I am. Friends do not offer to better each other—in such a way."
"I have not offered it to you, Miss Herold."
She looked up, still flushed and brilliant eyed; then her face changed softly. "I know it. I was foolishly sensitive. I know you couldn't offer such a thing to me. But I wish I knew whether we could accept for Jim. He is such a darling—so intelligent and perfectly crazy for an education. I've saved a little—that's why I wanted you to hire me for your bayman. You see I don't spend anything on myself," she added, with a blush.
Marche was fighting hard for self-restraint; he was young and romantic, and his heart was very full. "What I'd like to do," he said, "would be to send Jim to some first-rate school until he is ready for college. Then I'd like to see him through college, and, if he cared for it, start him with me in business."
"Oh," she cried softly, "is it possible! Is there—can any man really do such heavenly things? Have you any idea what you are saying? Do you realize what you are doing to me—with every word you utter?"
"What am I doing to—to you?" he asked unsteadily.
"Making me your slave," she said, in a low voice, thrilling with generous passion. "Even for the thought—even if father will not accept—what you have said to me to-night has put me in your debt forever. Truly—truly, I know what friendship is, now."
She clasped her hands tightly and said something else, sweetly incoherent; and, in the starlight, Marche saw the tears sparkling on her lashes.
With that he sprang nervously to the shore and began to tramp up and down the shingle, his mind in a whirl, every sense, common or the contrary, clamoring for finality—urging him to tell her the truth—tell her that he loved her, that he wanted her—her alone, out of all the world of women—that it was for love and for her, and for love of her, that he offered anything, did anything, thought anything now under the high stars or under the circling sun.
And now, as he tramped savagely to and fro, he realized that he had begun wrong; that he should have told her he loved her first of all, and then acted, not promised.
Would she look on his offer scornfully, now? Would she see, in what he asked of her, a bribe desired for the offer he had made in her brother's behalf? She did not love him. How could she, in a week? Never had there been even a hint of sentiment between them. What would she think—this young girl, so tranquilly confident in her friendship for him—what would she think of him and his love? He knew there was nothing mercenary or material in her character; he knew she was young, sweet tempered, reticent concerning herself, clean hearted, and proud. How could he come blundering through the boundaries of her friendship with such an avowal, at a moment's notice?
He returned slowly to the boat and stood looking up at her; and he saw that she was smiling down at him in the starlight.
"Why did you start off so abruptly and tramp up and down?" she asked.
He looked up at her. "Shall we walk back, now?" he said.
She extended her hands to him, and he swung her to the beach. For a moment he retained her hands; she looked at him, smiling, thrilling with all that he had said, meeting his eyes frankly and tenderly.
"You are like some glorious magic prince to me," she said, "appearing among us here to win our hearts with a word."
"Have I won yours with what I have said?"
"Mine? Oh, don't you know it? Do you think—even if it doesn't come true—that I can ever forget what you have wished to do for Jim?"
Still holding her hands, he lifted them, joined her fingers, and laid his lips to them. She bent her head and caught her breath in surprise.
"I am going North to-morrow," he said.
For a moment she did not comprehend his words. Then, a trifle dazed, she looked up at him. "To-morrow?"
"Yes."
"Are you coming back?"
"Perhaps—next year."
"Next—year!"
"Do you—find it—a long time?"
Her straight brows bent inward a little, the startled gray eyes became clear and steady. "Of course I knew that you must go—some time. But I had no idea that it would be so soon. Somehow, I have thought of you as being—here–"
"Do you care?"
Her honest eyes widened. "Care?" she repeated.
"Yes. How greatly do you care?"
The straight brows contracted still more as she stood considering him—so close that the fresh and subtle youth of her freshened the night again with its faint perfume.
Again he touched her hands with his lips, she watching him palely, out of clear, gray eyes; then, as they turned away together, he encircled her slender waist with his arm.
That she was conscious of it, and not disturbed by it, was part of her new mystery to him. Only once, as they walked, when his circling clasp tightened, did she rest her own hand over his where it held her body imprisoned. But she said nothing; nor had he spoken when the belt of pines loomed against the stars once more.
Then, though neither had spoken, they stopped. He turned to face her, drew her into his arms, and the beating of his heart almost suffocated him as he looked into her eyes, clear, unshrinking eyes of gray, with a child's question in their starry depths.
And he answered the question as in a dream: "I love you. I want you for my wife. I want you to love me. You are the first woman I have cared for. All that you are I want—no more than you are. You, as you are now, are all that I care for in the world. Life is young for us both, yet. Let us grow up together—if you can love me. Can you?"
"I don't know."
"Can you not care for me a little, Molly?"
"I do. I know—nothing about—love—real love."
"Can you not imagine it, dear?"
"I—it is what I have imagined—a man—like you—coming this way into my loneliness. I recognize it. I have dreamed that it was like this. What is it that I should do—if this is really to come true?"
"Love me."
"I would—if I knew how. I don't know how," she said wistfully. "My heart is so full—already—of your goodness—I—and then this dream I have dreamed—that a man like you should come here and say this to me–"
"Is it in you to love me?"
"I'll try—if you'll tell me what to do—how to show it—to understand–"
He drew her closer, unresisting, and looked deep into her young eyes, and kissed them, and then her lips, till they grew warmer and her breath came fragrant and uneven.
"Can you love me?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Are you sure?"
"Y-yes."
For a moment's exquisite silence she rested her flushed face against his shoulder, then lifted it, averted, and stepped aside, out of the circle of his arms. Head lowered, she stood there, motionless in the starlight, arms hanging straight; then, as he came to her, she lifted her proud little head and laid both her hands in his.
"Of those things," she said, "that a woman should be to the man she loves, and say to that man, I am ignorant. Even how to speak to you—now—I do not know. It is all a dream to me—except that, in my heart, I know that I do love you. But I think that was so from the beginning, and after you have gone away I should have realized it some day."
"You darling!" he whispered. Again she surrendered to him, exquisite in her ignorance, passive at first, then tremulously responsive. And at last her head drooped and fell on his shoulder, and he held her for a little longer, then released her.
Trembling, she crept up the stairway to her room, treading lightly along the dark entry, dazed, fatigued, with the wonder of it all. Then, as she laid her hand on the knob of her bedroom door, the door of her father's room opened abruptly.
"Molly?"
"Yes, dear," she answered vaguely.
He stood staring at her on the threshold, fully dressed, and she looked back at him, her eyes slightly confused by the light.
"Where have you been?" he said.
"With Mr. Marche."
"Where?"
"To the dory—and back."
"What did he say to you, child?"
She came silently across the threshold and put her arms around his neck; and the man lost every atom of his color.
"What did he say?" he repeated harshly.
"That he loves me."
"What!"
"It is true, father."
The man held her at arm's length roughly. "Good God!" he groaned, "how long has this been going on?"
"Only to-night. What do you mean, father?"
"He tells you that he—he is in love with you? With you?" repeated Herold unsteadily.
"Yes. It is true, too."
"You mean he asked you to marry him!"
"Yes. And I said I would."
"You love him!"
The man's pallor frightened her silent. Then he dropped her arms, which he had been clutching, and stood staring at nothing, gnawing at his colorless lips.
The girl watched him with dawning terror and finally ventured to speak. "Dear, what is the matter? Are you displeased with me? Do you think that he is not a man I should care for? You don't know him, dear. You have only to see him, to speak with him, hear his voice, look into his eyes–"
