Nobody's Child

To Ann's greater surprise, Coats said, "I have been thinking of getting one – if for no other reason than to get some decent roads about here. From what I know of your Dempsters they can be guaranteed to furnish an accident or two that would stir up our county supervisors. The roads they give us are an outrage."

Coats' face softened pleasantly under amusement, and Baird laughed. "Tell me who they are, and I'll go for them – sell each one of them a machine. That's a revenge that ought to satisfy you."

"All right – if you want to ride on with us, I'll tell you. I'm partial to automobiles anyway – even a Dempster's more satisfactory than a brute like this… Ann, you knew he wasn't safe – why didn't you bring Jinny?"

"Jinny went lame this morning, an' the other horses were working."

Coats frowned. "There's always something wrong with them. The horse is certainly an obsolete way of getting about – I'll be glad when he becomes merely a pet."

Baird agreed with him. He liked to win a man, particularly an intelligent, unassuming man like Coats Penniman. He set himself to do so, and found that Coats, for some unexplainable reason, was willing to be friendly. They found plenty to talk about, even for the length of four miles up the Post-Road, and, when Coats chose the longer way round, by the front road, Baird kept on with them, as far as the club house. He had decided that he liked Coats Penniman, and that it was pleasant riding in this slow way through the leafy scents of May, particularly with anything as lovely to look at as Ann.

Ann had been sufficiently surprised to pay attention to the conversation for a time, to notice that Baird was not at all handsome, not like Garvin or Edward, but broad-shouldered and strong-featured. His eyes were too cold a gray, his nose too aquiline, his cheek-bones too high, and his upper lip too long. And he had entirely too much jaw. Yet, for some reason, he was attractive, at any rate while he talked; his voice was deep but not at all harsh.

So Ann decided, then looked off over the country and thought of the one overwhelming thing, the night before – and of Edward. The Post-Road was shut in by trees in some places, but there were long stretches where the country sloped away on either side, pastures vivid with spring green, alternating with reddish brown plowed fields and orchards that already showed patches of color, cherry and peach bloom. The green of the woods seemed to darken even while she watched, they were growing so rapidly into full leaf. In a few days the woods would be sprayed with white, a riot of dogwood. And the wood-honeysuckle was coming into pink bloom everywhere; and millions of violets and wild pansies. The grass in the groves was thick with forget-me-nots, and the creek hollows white and yellow and pinky-green with blood-root, adder's-tongue and Jack-in-the-pulpit.

Every other spring she had roamed the country; this spring she had forgotten the flowers. She knew where the wild pansies grew the largest and most of them had the velvety upper petals that proclaimed them pansies and not violets; and where the rare white violets were to be found. As they crossed the bridge where, some twenty feet below, the creek that skirted the Mine Banks tumbled over big rocks, Ann remembered in a vague way, as one thinks of something years past, that she used to find white violets in the soft spaces between the rocks. She thought much more vividly of how dangerous the bridge was, without any side rails, simply a planking and that none too wide; a careless turn on a dark night, and an automobile could easily be dashed to pieces below. It would be dreadful if anything happened to Garvin.

Every thought she had circled about him, and her momentous promise the night before, a thing sealed and unalterable now… She was going away from all this, the green and the flowers, the fields and the woods. Everything would be quite different – and she was different already – not the same Ann at all… She had been fearfully angry with Judith, and terribly hurt because of Edward, quite beside herself, and all Garvin had said to her had been so sweet, like balm laid on aching wounds – and she had given her promise, forgotten everything and everybody but Garvin and herself. She had even forgotten to tell Garvin that she was sure Ben knew that they met, and how dangerous it was for them to go on meeting… And now it was plain that Edward had not meant to hurt her at all … and she would have to see him, and with a secret which she must keep from everybody… Suppose she told Edward that she was engaged to his brother, and how it had come about?..

Her father's invitation to Baird aroused her. They had come to the club entrance and had stopped. "Come over some evening and see us," Coats said, "and don't hesitate to ride through whenever you want – the key to the gate is in a notch near the top of the right-hand post."

"Thank you," Baird returned heartily. "I'll be glad to come, and glad to take the short cut sometimes, too." He swept off his cap to them, a gleam of mischief in his eyes when he looked at Ann. Ann was flushed by her thoughts, and she colored still more deeply because of his meaningful glance.

Coats had noted Baird's look and Ann's blush. He had been thinking steadily of something quite unconnected with his conversation with Baird. He waited a little before he asked, "That's an attractive young fellow – had you met him before, Ann?"

Ann was succinct. "I let him through the gate once, just before you came home. I haven't talked with him since – till to-day."

"Who was the other man who was with you when I got off the train?"

"Edward Westmore – they both helped me with the horse," Ann answered with a calmness she did not feel. If her father questioned further, she did not know what she would do; every nerve in her was jumping, as they had been all night and all day.

But he did not. For a time they rode in an oppressive silence. Then Coats said, "I rather like Mr. Baird. He's the sort who's apt to judge men and women more by what they are than by what their great grandparents were. He comes from a part of the country that's not so hidebound by caste as this country. And he's sure to go back to it. He can come to my house whenever he likes – I approve his kind."

Ann said nothing.

XXIII

CHAOTIC UNCERTAINTY

When Baird started for Westmore that evening the full moon had already turned the world white.

He had dined with laughter and talk about him, for usually the club was gay on Saturday night. The hunting season was over, but some of the summer residents of the Ridge had come out to their homes and others were out from the city for the afternoon, for dinner parties at the club and a ride back through the moonlight.

Baird had left Garvin Westmore at the club and with the signs of an afternoon of indulgence upon him. Baird had discovered that liquor made Garvin cool and silent, a surface restraint that was deceptive. It was his eyes that betrayed him when he was farther gone than usual, sometimes burning and restless, again profoundly melancholy. Baird had not thought of that explanation for the man's peculiarities.

Though he had not shown it to Garvin, Baird was thoroughly annoyed. The man must often have been under the influence of liquor when he had not suspected it; he was evidently the sort that drank secretly. Baird doubted whether any one knew that Garvin drank so much; his family were probably in the dark, worried over his moodiness and anxious about him, but unsuspicious of the real cause. Baird wished that he had known this before his firm had placed the man in a responsible position. Had he known, not even his devotion to Judith and his very lively desire to forward his own interests would have led him to recommend Garvin.

Garvin had thanked him with all the Westmore grace for the position Baird had secured for him, then added restlessly, "A month! I wish I could get out of this to-morrow!"

Baird reflected, as he rode through the moonlight, that the thing was done now and couldn't be helped. It was simply up to Garvin: if he did not make good, he would be ousted, that was all. But it was too bad. The man must be mad to celebrate his good luck by a debauch, for that was evidently what it was. Baird was no teetotaler, the consumption of a certain amount of liquor seemed to be necessary for the transaction of business, but he held, with the rest of his kind, that the man who sought to drown his troubles in drink, or celebrate his joys by getting full was a fool, and that the secret debauchee was something decidedly worse.

He was going to Westmore by the Back Road and the Mine Banks, and, as he looked up at Crest Cave, he remembered what Garvin had said: "Lord! I've slept off many a drunk up there." Baird had never solved the mysteries of that queer night he had spent at Westmore – that they were some set of circumstances connected with Garvin was the only explanation he had been able to make to himself. He felt certain of it now; a man with Garvin's weakness was capable of any sort of madness. He was glad Judith was the sane wholesome woman she was.

Baird also remembered what a man at the club had told him of Garvin's father: "The old colonel was a fine sort, hot-tempered and proud as the deuce, but a gallant sort, just the same – until the war broke him. Then came the hard times, beastly hard times for everybody, and the colonel went under – began to soak and went on soaking to the end." Edward and Judith had come before that time, but Garvin had not.

"I suppose the poor devil can't help it," Baird thought, and shrugged away his annoyance. Besides, he was going to become one of the clan; it was his duty to do all he could for Garvin.

In that soberly responsible frame of mind Baird rode up to Westmore, and the long imposing structure that for nearly two centuries had housed Judith's ancestors impressed him somberly. Perhaps it was as well, on the whole, not to have any known ancestors; it must be rather eery to recognize your great-grandfather cropping up in yourself – damned uncomfortable sometimes … Well, Judith had certified ancestors enough to supply their family with credentials and with ghosts. Their children…

Baird's thoughts had progressed to this point and beyond when he reached Westmore. In the last twenty-four hours he had considered every possible responsibility connected with matrimony and had thought very little about the thing that turns the world golden, that transcends even the transports of passion, hallows heaven and earth. But he had not realized that. Marriage was a serious thing; it had always impressed him as an almost terrifyingly serious thing.

The door was opened to him by Hetty, the big negress. "Can I see Miss Judith?" Baird asked, preparing to step in.

"Miss Judith ain't here, Mr. Baird – she's done gone fo' a visit."

"Not here?" Baird said blankly.

"No, suh – she went this evenin' fo' over Sunday – to Fair Field. They's a party holdin' at the club – she's gone fo' hit."

Baird managed to say, casually, "Very well – just tell her, when she comes back, that I called."

"Yes, suh."

Baird rode down the Westmore Road even more slowly than he had come up. His first feeling was a hot sense of rebuff – until he began to ask himself why Judith had run away from him?.. But she had not run away from him; she had not gone until that evening?.. There had been the afternoon during which she might reasonably expect him to come – and the morning that might have brought her a letter from him.

It came over Baird then, with a warm flush, a shock of surprise at himself, that he had been a pretty sort of lover! He had ridden away after that kiss of love she had given him, when even a stupid man would have found an excuse for staying; he had written no impassioned note that Sam must deliver at daybreak; he had dallied through the afternoon, and had ridden composedly up to Westmore with the whole future mapped out in his mind … Good lord!.. And he was a passionate man, too – ordinarily!

Baird was so intensely surprised at himself that, for a time, he could consider nothing but his own conduct. He had never been more in earnest in his life, never more decided upon a course of action. Why, he had settled everything, even to the details of a trip abroad with Judith and the sort of house he would have money enough to run when they came back, and yet he had left undone the first and most natural things a man would do!

Baird was emotionally headlong, he knew that well, easily aroused and always hot in pursuit. What in heaven's name had been the matter with him these last twenty-four hours? His own case bewildered him more than anything he had ever come across. He set his brain to work upon himself, and finally evolved an explanation, which, as is usual when a man seeks to elucidate his own emotional shortcomings, threw the onus upon the woman: Judith's premature offering of herself had made him too sure of her. She had deliberately attracted him, and that was all right, that was what men and women were placed in the world for, to be mutually attracted and to come together. And his pursuit of her was all right, too, particularly right because it had never entered his head to trifle with her – he had respected and admired her too much for that. It was a tribute to the sort of hold she had laid upon him during those weeks of pursuit, that the instant he knew she loved him he had considered marriage and had decided upon it as completely as he had ever decided upon any important thing. The thoughts he had of Judith had been, throughout, the decentest and the honestest thoughts he had ever had.

Then he went on to own to himself that a certain eagerness had departed from him after that kiss of hers. In that one respect it had been a little like some other experiences, when he had pursued determinedly, captured rather easily, then had lost zest… But he had wanted to marry Judith – that was the unexplainable thing… Was it simply that, on the whole, she had been such a new experience that he had quite naturally considered marriage, which, Lord knows, was a new and strange enough thing for him to consider?

At this point, Baird asked himself point-blank, "Do you love Judith, or don't you?" And he answered himself honestly, for he felt somewhat desperately in need of honesty. "Yes, I love her, or I wouldn't be thinking of marrying her – I've never wanted to marry any other woman I've known."

Baird considered for a longer space, and then summed up thus: "From the very first Judith appealed to the best in me – she's appealed more to the mental than the physical side of me. That's why, instead of plunging along in a fever these last twenty-four hours, I've been planning for a contented future. And if respect and admiration and the certainty that a woman will make you a splendid, wife, plus a reasonable degree of passion, aren't good reasons for thinking of marriage, then I've learned nothing from watching men who have been infatuated with their wives in much the same fashion that a man is infatuated with his mistress; the result is usually ructions. I love Judith in sensible marrying fashion, but I confess I ought to feel more joyous over it."

Unless a man is permeated by the golden thing of which, as yet, Baird had little conception, he is apt to settle his own case first and the woman's last. He turned finally to a consideration of Judith. Baird was not any more conceited than the average man, but the certainty that Judith loved him about as completely as a woman could love a man was his unalterable conviction. He might live to be eighty, live to doubt most things, but of that he was certain. And it had not been a sudden thing with her; it was a culmination, a steady growing up to an involuntary offering. She desired him and wished to marry him, and not after the deliberate fashion in which he had been considering their union. Judith loved him intensely, and had sought to attract him as many honest women before her had sought to capture the men they wished to marry. She had waited through the day, then had gone because she must do something to save her pride. She knew that, if the spark was in him at all, he would follow.

He knew now just how it was with him, and he knew how it was with her. He wasn't in the least elated, yet he was pretty thoroughly committed.

What did he intend to do?

XXIV

A DEFINITION OF LOVE

Baird was still pondering his situation when, half an hour later, he let himself through the Penniman gate. The collie must have been abroad in the moonlight seeking adventure, for Baird was not disturbed by any hostile demonstrations; the Penniman barn and house might have been abandoned property, they were so silent under the moon; there was no lighted window, no stir of any kind – until he neared the front porch – then some woman dressed in white rose from a chair, evidently startled.