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The Gay Rebellion, a novel by Robert W. Chambers |
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Chapter 12 |
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_ CHAPTER XII WHENEVER he went to Moss Centre with the wagon he telephoned and telegraphed to himself, and about a month after he had begun this idiot performance he ventured to speak to her. It occurred late in July, just before sunset. He had placed his rod, lighted his pipe, and seated himself on the platform's edge, when, all of a sudden, and without any apparent reason, a dizzy sort of recklessness seized him, and he got up and walked over to her window. "Good evening," he said. She looked around leisurely. "Good evening," she said in a low voice. "I was wondering," he went on, scared almost to death, "whether you would mind if I spoke to you?" After a few seconds she said: "Well? Have you decided?" Badly frightened, he managed to find voice enough to express his continued uncertainty. "Why did you care to speak to me?" she asked. "I--we--you----" and he stuck fast. "Had you anything to say to me?" she asked in a lower--and he thought a gentler--voice. "I've a lot to say to you," he said, finding his voice again. "Really? What about?" He looked at her so appealingly, so miserably, that the faintest possible smile touched her lips. "Can I do anything for you, Mr. Marque?" "If--if you'd only let me speak to you----" "But I am letting you." "I mean--to-morrow, too----" "To-morrow? To-morrow is a very, very long way off. It is somewhere beyond those eastern hills--but a very, very long way off!--as far as the East is from the West. No; I know nothing about to-morrow, so how can I promise anything to anybody?" "Will your promise cover to-day?" "Yes. . . . The sun has nearly set, Mr. Marque." "Then perhaps when to-morrow is to-day you will be able to promise----" "Perhaps. Have you caught any fish?" After a moment he said: "How did you know I was fishing? You didn't turn to look." She said coolly: "How did you know I didn't?" "You never do." She said nothing. At her window, elbows on the sill, the blossoms in her window-box brushing his sunburnt face, he stood, legs crossed, pipe in hand, the sunset wind stirring the curly hair at his temples. "Did you hear the bird this evening?" he asked. "Yes. Isn't he a perfect darling!" Her sudden unbending was so gracious, so sweet that, bewildered, he remained silent for a while, recovering his breath. And finally: "I never knew whether or not you noticed his singing," he said. "How could you suppose any woman indifferent to such music?" she asked indignantly. She was beginning to realise how her silence had starved her all these months, and the sheer happiness of speech was exciting her. Into her face came a faint glow like a reflection from the pink clouds above the West. "That little bird," she said, "sings me awake every morning. I can hear his happy, delicious song above the rushing chorus of dawn from every thicket. He dominates the cheery confusion by the clear, crystalline purity of his voice." It scarcely surprised him to find himself conversing with a cultivated woman--scarcely found it unexpected that, in her, speech matched beauty, making for him a charming and slightly bewildering harmony. Her slim hands lay in her lap sometimes; sometimes, restless, they touched her bright hair or caressed the polished instruments on the table before her. But, happy miracle! her face and body remained turned toward him where he stood leaning on her window-sill. "There is a fish nibbling your hook, I think," she said. He regarded his bobbing cork vaguely, then went across the track and secured the plump perch. At intervals during their conversation he caught three more. "Now," she said, "I think I had better say good-night." "Would you let me give you my fish?" She replied, hesitating: "I will let you give me two if you really wish to." "Will you bring a pan?" "No," she said hastily; "just leave them under my window when you go." Neither spoke again for a few moments, until he said with an effort: "I have wanted to talk to you ever since I first saw you. Do you mind my saying so?" She shook her head uncertainly. He lingered a moment longer, then took his leave. Far away into the dusk she watched him until the trees across the bridge hid him. Then the faint smile died on her lips and in her eyes; her mouth drooped a little; she rested one hand on the table, rose with a slight effort, and lowered the shade. Listening intently, and hearing no sound, she bent over and groped on the floor for something. Then she straightened herself to her full height and, leaning on her rubber-tipped cane, walked to the door. _ |
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