CHAPTER XXII
ROBERTA WAKES EARLY
Midsummer Day! Roberta woke with the thought in her mind, as it had beenthe last in her mind when she had gone to sleep. She had lain awake fora long time the night before, watching a strip of moonlight which laylike flickering silver across her wall. Who would have found it easy tosleep, with the consciousness beating at her brain that on the morrowsomething momentous was as surely going to happen as that the sun wouldrise? Did she want it to happen? Would she rather not run away andprevent its happening? There was no doubt that, being a woman, shewanted to run away. At the same time--being a woman--she knew that shewould not run. Something would stay her feet.
With wide-open eyes on this Midsummer morning she lay, as she had lainthe night before, regarding without attention the early sunlightflooding the room where moonlight had lain a few hours ago. Her bare,round arms, from which picturesque apologies for sleeves fell back, werethrown wide upon her pillows, her white throat and shoulders gleamedbelow the loose masses of her hair, her heart was beating a trifle morerapidly than was natural after a night of repose.
It was very early, as a little clock upon a desk announced--half afterfive. Yet some one in the house was up, for Roberta heard a lightfootfall outside her door. There followed a soft sound which drew hereyes that way; she saw something white appear beneath the door--in theold house the sills were not tight. The white rectangle was obviously aletter.
Her curiosity alive, she lay looking at this apparition for some time,unwilling to be heard to move even by a maidservant. But at length shearose, stole across the floor, picked up the missive, and went back toher bed. She examined the envelope--it was of a heavy plain paper; theaddress--it was in a hand she had seen but once, on the day when she hadcopied many pages of material upon the typewriter for her UncleCalvin--a rather compact, very regular and positive hand, unmistakablythat of a person of education and character.
She opened the letter with fingers that hesitated. Midsummer Day was athand; it had begun early! Two closely written sheets appeared. Sittingamong her pillows, her curly, dusky locks tumbling all about her face,her pulses beating now so fast they shook the paper in her fingers, sheread his letter:
* * * * *
My Roberta: I can't begin any other way, for, even though you shouldnever let me use the words again, you have become such a part of me, bothof the man I am and of the man I want and mean to become, that in somedegree you will always belong to me in spite of yourself.
Why do I write to you to-day? Because there are things I want to say toyou which I could never wait to say when I see you, but which I want youto know before you answer me. I don't want to tell you "the story of mylife," but I do feel that you must understand a few of my thoughts, foronly so can I be sure that you know me at all.
Before I came to your home, one night last October, I had unconsciouslysettled into a way of living which as a rule seemed to me all-sufficient.My friends, my clubs, my books--yes, I care for my books more than youhave ever discovered--my plans for travel, made up a life which satisfiedme--a part of the time. Deep down somewhere was a sense of unrest, aknowledge that I was neither getting nor giving all that I was meantto. But this I was accustomed to stifle--except at unhappy hours whenstifling would not work, and then I was frankly miserable. Mostly,however, my time was so filled with diversion of one sort or anotherthat I managed to keep such hours from over-whelming me; I worriedthrough them somehow and forgot them as soon as I could.
From the first day that I came through your door my point of view wasgradually and strangely altered. I saw for the first time in my life whata home might be. It attracted me; more, it showed me how empty my ownlife was, that I had thought so full. The sight of your mother, of yourbrothers, of your sisters, of your brother's little children--each ofthese had its effect on me. As for yourself--Roberta, I don't know how totell you that; at least I don't know how to tell you on paper. I canimagine finding words to tell you, if--you were very much nearer to methan you are now. I hardly dare think of that!
Yet I must try, for it's part of the story; it's all of it. With my firstsight of you, I realized that here was what I had dreamed of but neverhoped to find: beauty and charm and--character. I had seen many women whopossessed two of these attributes; it seemed impossible to discover onewho had all three. Many women I had admired--and despised; many I hadrespected--and disliked. I am not good at analysis, but perhaps you canguess at what I mean. I may have been unfortunate; I don't know. Theremay be many women who are both beautiful and good. No, that is not what Imean! The combination I am trying to describe as impossibly desirable isthat not only of beauty and goodness--I suppose there are really many whohave those; but--goodness and fascination! That's what a man wants. Canyou possibly understand?
I wonder if I had better stop writing? I am showing myself up ashopelessly awkward at expression; probably because my heart is poundingso as I write that it is taking the blood from my brain. But--I'll makeone more try at it.
I had no special purpose in life last October. I meant to do a littlegood in the world if I could--without too much trouble. Some time orother I supposed I should marry--intended to put it off as long as Icould. I saw no reason why I shouldn't travel all I wanted to; it was theone thing I really cared for with enthusiasm. I didn't appreciate muchwhat a selfish life I was leading, how I was neglecting the one person inthe world who loved me and was anxious about me. Your little sister,Ruth, opened my eyes to that, by the way. I shall always thank her forit. I hadn't known what I was missing.
I don't know how the change came about. You charmed me, yet you made merealize every time I was with you that I was not the sort of man youeither admired or respected. I felt it whenever I looked at any of thepeople in your home. Every one of them was busy and happy; every one ofthem was leading a life worth while. Slowly I waked up. I believe I'mwide awake now. What's more, nothing could ever tempt me to go to sleepagain. I've learned to _like_ being awake!
You decreed that I should keep away from you all these months. I agreed,and I have kept my word. All the while has been the fear bothering mebeyond endurance that you did it to be rid of me. I said some bold wordsto you--to make you remember me. Roberta, I am humbler to-day than I wasthen. I shouldn't dare say them to you now. I was madly in love with youthen; I dared say anything. I am not less in love now--great heavens! notless--but I have grown to worship you so that I have become afraid. WhenI saw you in my room before my mother's portrait I could have knelt atyour feet. From the beginning I have felt that I was not worthy of you,but I feel it so much more deeply now that I don't know how to offermyself to you. I have written as if I wanted to persuade you that I ammore of a man than when you knew me first, and therefore more worthy ofyou. I _am_ more of a man, but by just so much more do I realize my ownunworthiness.
And yet--it is Midsummer Day; this is the twenty-fourth of June--and I amon fire with love and longing for you, and I must know whether you care.If I were strong enough I would offer to wait longer before asking you totell me--but I'm not strong enough for that.
I have a plan which I am hoping you will let me carry out, whateveranswer you are going to give me. If you will allow it I will ask Mr. andMrs. Stephen Gray to go with us on a long horseback ride this afternoon,to have supper at a place I know. I could take you all in my car if youprefer, but I hope you will not prefer it. You have never seemed like amotoring girl to me every other one I know is--and ever since I saw youon Colonel last November I've been hoping to have a ride with you. If Ican have it to-day--Midsummer--it will be a dream fulfilled. If only Idared hope my other--and dearer--dream were to come true! Roberta, are wereally so different? I have thought a thousand times of your "_stoutlittle cabin on the hilltop_," where you would like to spend "_the worstnight of the winter_." All alone? "_Well, with a fire for company,and--perhaps--a dog_." But not with a good comrade? "_There are sofew good comrades--who can be tolerant of one's every mood_." You wereright; the
re are few. And--this one might not be so clever as tounderstand every mood of yours, but--Roberta, Roberta--he would love youso much that you wouldn't mind if he didn't always understand. Thatis--you wouldn't mind if, in return, you--But I dare not say it--I canonly hope--hope!
Unless you send me word to the contrary by ten o'clock, I will then askMr. and Mrs. Stephen, and arrange to come for you at four this afternoon.You are committed to nothing by agreeing to this arrangement. But I--amcommitted to everything for as long as I live. RICHARD.
* * * * *
It was well that it was not yet six o'clock in the morning and thatRoberta had two long hours to herself before she need come forth fromher room. She needed them, every minute of them, to get herself in hand.
It was a good letter, no doubt of that. It was neither clever noreloquent, but it was better: it was manly and sincere. It showedself-respect; it showed also humility, a proud humility which rejoicedthat it could feel its own unworthiness and know thereby that it wouldstrive to be more fit. And it showed--oh, unquestionably it showed!--thedepth of his feeling. Quite clearly he had restrained a pen that longedto pour forth his heart, yet there were phrases in which his tendernesshad been more than he could hold back, and it was those phrases whichmade the recipient hold her breath a little as she read them, wonderinghow, if the written words were almost more than she could bear, shecould face the spoken ones.
And now she really wanted to run away! If she could have had a week, amonth, between the reading of this letter and the meeting of its writer,it seemed to her that it would have been the happiest month of her life.To take the letter with her into exile, to read it every day, but towait--wait--for the real crisis till she could quiet her racingemotions. One sweet at a time--not an armful of them. But the man--trueto his nature--the man wanted the armful, and at once. And she had madehim wait all these months; she could not, knowing her own heart, put himoff longer now. The cool composure with which, last winter, she hadanswered his first declaration that he loved her was all gone; themonths, of waiting had done more than show him whether his love wasreal: they had shown her that she wanted it to be real.
The day was a hard one to get through. The hours lagged--yet they flew.At eight o'clock she went down, feeling as if it were all in her face;but apparently nobody saw anything beyond the undoubted fact that in herwhite frock she looked as fresh and as vivid as a flower. At half afterten Rosamond came to her to know if she had received an invitation fromRichard Kendrick to go for a horseback ride, adding that she herself wasdelighted at the thought and had telephoned Stephen, to find that healso was pleased and would be up in time.
"I wonder where he's going to take us," speculated Rosamond, in aflutter of anticipation. "Without doubt it will be somewhere that'sperfectly charming; he knows how to do such things. Of course it's allfor you, but I shall love to play chaperon, and Stevie and I shall havea lovely time out of it. I haven't been on a horse since Dorothy came; Ihope I haven't grown too stout for my habit. What are you going to wear,Rob? The blue cloth? You are perfectly irresistible in that! Do wearthat rakish-looking soft hat with the scarf; it's wonderfully becoming,if it isn't quite so correct; and I'm sure Richard Kendrick won't takeus to any stupid fashionable hotel. He'll arrange an outdoor affair, I'mconfident, with the Kendrick chef to prepare it and the Kendrickservants to see that it is served. Oh, it's such a glorious June day!Aren't you happy, Rob?"
"If I weren't it would make me happy to look at you, you dear marriedchild," and Roberta kissed her pretty sister-in-law, who could be aswomanly as she was girlish, and whose companionship, with that ofStephen's, she felt to be the most discriminating choice of chaperonageRichard could have made. Stephen and Rosamond, off upon a holiday likethis, would be celebrating a little honeymoon anniversary of their own,she knew, for they had been married in June and could never get overcongratulating themselves on their own happiness.
The Twenty-Fourth of June: Midsummer's Day Page 22