by Will Irwin
V
THE LIGHT WAVERS
As Blake drove the runabout north through the fine autumn morning, heperceived suddenly that his subconscious mind was playing him a trick.He had started out to get light, air, easement of his soul among woodsand fields. And now, instead of turning into Central Park at ColumbusCircle, he was following Upper Broadway, where, in order to reach thegreat out-of-doors, he must dodge trucks and cabs between miles ofhotels and apartment houses. In fact, he had been manoeuvering,half-unconsciously, so that he might turn into the park at theEighty-Sixth Street entrance and so pass that most important of alldwellings in Manhattan, the house where Annette Markham lived. Anyirritation which he had felt against her, after the unpleasant eveningbefore, was lost in his greater irritation with her aunt. Annetteappeared to him, now, as the prize, the reward, of a battle in whichMrs. Paula Markham was his antagonist.
As he turned the corner into her street, ten years rolled away fromhim; he dreamed the childish, impossible dreams of a very youth. Shemight be coming down the steps as he passed. Fate might even send adrunkard or an obstreperous cabman for him to thrash in her service.But when he reached the house, nothing happened. The front doorremained firmly shut; no open window gave a delicious glimpse ofAnnette. After his machine had gone ahead to such position that hecould no longer scan the house without impolite craning of his neck, hefound that his breath was coming fast. Awakened from his dream, alittle ashamed of it, he opened the control and shot his machine aheadto the violation of all speed laws. He was crossing Central Park West,and the smooth opening of the park driveway was before him, when helooked up and saw--Annette.
Her honey-colored hair, glistening dull in the autumn sunshine,identified her even before he caught her characteristic walk--gracefuland fast enough, but a little languid, too. She was dressed in a plaintailor suit, a turban, low, heavy shoes.
He slowed down the automobile to a crawl, that he might enter the parkafter her. A boyish embarrassment smote him; if he drove up and spoketo her, it would look premeditated. So he hesitated between twocourses, knowing well which he would pursue in the end. As he enteredthe park, still a dozen yards behind her, he saw that the footpathwhich she was following branched out from the automobile drive. Withina few paces, she would disappear behind a hydrangea bush. On thatperception, he gave all speed to his machine, shot alongside andstopped.
Even before he reached her, she had turned and faced him. He fanciedthat the smile of recognition on her face had started even before shebegan to turn; she did not appear surprised, only pleased. Beatingaround in his mind for a graceful word of introduction, he accomplishedan abrupt and ungraceful one.
"Will you ride?" he asked.
"With pleasure," she responded simply, and in one light motion she wasin the seat beside him. He turned at low speed north, and as his handsmoved over wheels and levers, she was asking:
"How did you happen to be here?"
He put a bold front on it.
"I drove past your home, by instinct, because I was coming north. And Isaw you. Which of your spirits"--he was bold enough for the moment tomake light of her sacred places--"sent you out-of-doors just before Ipassed?"
"The spirit of the night before," she answered, passing from smiles togravity. "That long sleep without rest has been troubling me again. Iremembered how exercise set me up in the country, and I started out fora little air. Aunt Paula is out this morning--something about theplumbing. Dear Auntie, how I'd love to take those cares off hershoulders. She'll never let me, though. And next week our housekeeper,whom we've held for two years, is leaving; she must advertise andreceive applicants--and likely get the wrong one. So that's anotherworry for her. I was alone in the house when I awoke, and I could notwaste such autumn weather as this!"
He looked at her with anxiety--the physician again.
"I saw trouble in your face last night. It isn't normal that you shouldbe tired out so soon after the perfect condition you achieved atBerkeley Center."
"No, it isn't. I know that perfectly, and I'm resigned to it."
"I won't ask you to let _me_ treat you--but why don't you go to somephysician about it? You know how much this case means to me."
For a time she did not reply. She only kept her eyes on the autumntints of the park, streaking past them like a gaudy Roman scarf.
"No," she said at length, "no physician like you can heal me. Greaterphysicians, higher ones, for me. And they will not--will not--" She wassilent again.
"Are you coming back again to that queer business of which you toldme--that day on the tennis court?"
"To just that."
"What can such a thing have to do with your physical condition?"
"You will not laugh?"
"At you and yours and anything which touches you--no. You know I couldnot laugh now. Little as I respect that obstacle, it is the mostserious fact I know."
His eyes were on the steering of the automobile. He could not see thather lips pursed up as though to form certain low and tender words, andthat her sapphirine eyes swept him before she controlled herself to goon.
"Aunt Paula says it is part of the struggle. Some people, when thepower is coming into them, are violent. Men, she says, have smashedfurniture and torn their bodies. I am not strong to do such things, butonly weak to endure. And so it takes me as it does.
"Don't you see?" she added, "that if I'm to give up so many powers ofmy mind, so many needs of my soul, to this thing, I can afford to giveup a few powers of my body? Am I to become a Light without sacrificingall? So I keep away from physicians. It is Aunt Paula's wish, and shehas always known what is best for me."
The automobile was running at an even fifteen miles an hour down abroad, unobstructed parkway. He could turn his eyes from his businessand let his hands guide. So he looked full at her, as he said:
"She may have a hard time keeping you away from this physician!"
That, it seemed, amused her. The strain in her face gave way to asmile.
"For yourself, she likes you, I think," said Annette.
"She has a most apt and happy way of showing it," he responded, hisslights rising up in him.
"You mustn't judge her by last night," replied Annette. "Aunt Paula hasmany manners. I think she assumes that one when she is studying people.Then think of the double reason she has for receiving you coldly--mywhole future, as she plans it, hangs on it--and she spoke nicely ofyou. She likes your eyes and your wit and your manners. But--"
"But I am an undesirable acquaintance for her niece just the same!"
"Have I not said that you are--the obstacle? Haven't her controls toldher that? If not, why did she telegraph to me when she did?" Then, asthey turned from the park corner and made towards Riverside Drive,something in her changed.
"Must we talk this out whenever we meet? You said once that you wouldteach me to play. Ah, teach me now! I need it!"
And though he turned and twisted back toward the subject, she was puregirl for the next hour. The river breezes blew sparkle into her eyes;the morning intoxicated her tongue. She chattered of the trees, thewater, the children on the benches, the gossiping old women. She madehim stop to buy chestnuts of an Italian vendor, she led him toward histales of the Philippines. He plunged into the Islands like a whiteOthello, charming a super-white Desdemona. It was his story of theburning of Manila which brought him back to the vexation in his mind.
"That yarn seemed to make a very small hit last night," he said,turning suddenly upon her.
"I didn't like it so much last night," she answered frankly.
"What was the matter?" he asked. "Why were you so far away? Were youafraid of Mrs. Markham? I felt like the young man of a summerflirtation calling in the winter. What was it?"
"I don't know," she answered.
"No--tell me."
"There wasn't any reason. I liked you last night as I always like you.But we were far away. Shall I tell you how it seemed to me? I was likean actress on the stage, and you like a man in the audien
ce. I wasspeaking to you--a part. In no way could you answer me. In no way couldI answer you directly. We moved near to each other, but in differentworlds. It was something like that."
"I suppose"--bitterly--"your Aunt Paula had nothing to do with that?"
"You must like Aunt Paula if you are to like me," she warned. "Yet thatmay have something to do with it. I am wonderfully influenced by whatshe thinks--as is right."
"Then it's coming to a fight between me and your Aunt Paula? For I'lldo even that."
"Must we go all over it again? Oh like me, like me, and give me a restfrom it! I think of nothing but this all day--why do you make itharder? I do not know if I can renounce and still have you in my life.Won't you wait until I know? It will be time enough then!"
"'Renounce,'" he quoted. "Then you know that there is something torenounce--and that means you love me!" So giddy had he become with thesurge of his passion that his hands trembled on the steering-wheel.Afraid of losing all muscular control, he brought the automobile to afull stop at the roadside. Her sapphirine eyes were shining, her handslay inert in her lap, her lips quivered softly.
"Have I ever denied it--can I ever deny it to you?"
The pure accident of location gave him opportunity for what he didnext. For they were in one of those country lanes of Upper Manhattanwhich, though enclosed by the greatest city, seem still a part ofremote country. Heavy branches of autumn foliage guarded the road toright and left; from end to end of the passage was neither vehicle norfoot-passenger. One faculty, standing unmoved in the storm of emotionswhich had overwhelmed him, perceived this.
He reached for the trembling hands which gave themselves to his touch.She swayed against him. Her hands had snatched themselves awaynow--only to clasp his neck. And now her lips had touched his again andagain and somehow between kiss and kiss, she was murmuring, "Oh, I loveyou--I love you--I love you. I love you so much that life without youis a perfect misery. I love you so much that my work now seems staleand dreary. I love you so much that I don't want ever to go away fromyou. I want to stay here forever and feel your arms about me, for thatis the only way that I shall ever know happiness--or peace. I wake inthe morning with your name on my lips. I wander through the day withyou. If I try to read, you come between me and the page. If I try toplay you come between me and the notes. You are my books. You are mymusic--my--my--everything. I go to bed early at night often so that Ican lie in the dusk and think of you. And oh, the only nights that restme are those filled with dreams of the poem we would make out oflife--if--if--"
Her voice faltered and he felt the exquisite caress of her lipstrembling against his cheek. As though she were utterly spent, sheended where she had begun, "I love you--I love--I love you."
He was aware now that another car whirred behind them. He managed--ittook all the force in his soul--to put her from him. He turned to seeif they had been observed; the passengers in the other car, intent ontheir own chatter, did not look; only the chauffeur regarded theirchassis with a professional eye, as though wondering if they werestalled. When Blake drew a long breath and looked back at Annette, herface was buried in her hands. And now, when he touched her, she drewslowly away.
"Oh, drive on--drive on!" she said.
"Oh, Annette--dearest."
"Don't speak. I beg you--drive on or I shall die!"
And though the car wavered dangerously under his unsteady touch, heobeyed, managed to gain the highroad without a spill, and to turnnorth.
She wept silently. When at last she took her hands away and turned herface on him, his lover's observation saw how beautifully she wept. Hereyes were not red, her face was calm. He took heart from her glance,began to babble foolish love words. But she stopped him.
"You are driving away from home," she said. "Drive back, and don'tspeak yet."
After he had turned, her tears ceased. She dried her eyes. Now shesmiled a little, and her voice grew natural.
"I must never be weak again," she said. "But it was sweet. Dear, mightI touch your arm? No, you must not stop again. Just my hand on yourarm."
"Dearest, why do you ask?" She drew off her glove, and all the way alight, steady pressure made uncertain his wheel-hand. They drove a mileso--two miles--and neither spoke until they came out into inhabitedUpper Broadway. At the appearance of crowds, trucks and the perils ofthe highway, that silver thread of silence broke. She drew her handaway, and took up the last word of ten minutes ago.
"It was sweet--but no more. How long it is since I kissed you! I amglad. I shall pay for it heavily--but I am glad!"
He smiled on her as on a child who speaks foolishness.
"You cannot renounce now!" he said.
"I shall renounce. I have stolen this morning--would you rob me inturn?"
"It will be the first kiss of a million," he said.
"It will be the last forever," she answered. "But remember, if you donot kiss me, no man ever shall."
He busied himself with guiding the automobile; it was no time to hurlout the intense things which he had to say. But when they had enteredthe smooth park driveway, he came out with it:
"Do you think that I respect that obstacle? Can you think that Ibelieve such moonshine even if you do? And do you suppose that I amgoing to let Aunt Paula keep you now?"
She touched his arm again; let her hand rest there as before.
"Dear," she said, "I have never thought that you believed. I have feltthis always in the bottom of your heart. I only ask you not to spoilthis day for me. I have stolen it. Let me enjoy it. I shall not put youout of my life--at least not yet. Later, when we are both calm, we willtalk that out. But let it rest now, for I am tired--and happy."
So they drove along, her light hand making warm his arm, and said noword until they came near the Eighty-Sixth Street entrance. He lookedat her with a question in his eyes.
"Leave me where you found me," she answered; "I shall go in alone."
"But will you tell your Aunt Paula that you met me?"
"I shall tell her--yes. Not all, perhaps, but that I rode with you.What is the use of concealment? She will know--"
"Her spirits?"
"Dear, do not mock me. They tell her everything she wants to know aboutme." They had drawn up at the park entrance now; before he couldassist, she had jumped down.
"Good-by--I must go quickly--you must come soon--I will write."
He stood beside his car, watching her back. Once she turned and wavedto him; when she went on, she walked with a spring, an exultation, asthough from new life. He watched until she was only a blue atom amongthe foot-passengers, until a park policeman thumped him on the shoulderand informed him that this was not an automobile stand.
* * * * *
When Dr. Blake woke next morning, it was with a sense of deliciousexpectancy. He formulated this as his eyes opened. She had promised towrite; the mail, due for distribution in the Club at a quarter pasteight, might bring a note from her. He timed his dressing carefully,that he might arrive downstairs neither before nor after the moment offulfilment or disappointment. He saw, as he crossed the corridor to hismail-box, that the clerk was just dropping a square, white envelope. Hepeered through the glass before he felt for his keys. It was Annette'shand.
So, glowing, he tore it open, and read:
DEAR MR. BLAKE:
I think it best never to see you again. Aunt Paula approves of this; but it is done entirely of my own accord. My decision will not change. Please do not call at my house, for I shall not see you. Please do not write, for I shall send your letters back unopened. Please do not try to see me outside, for I shall not recognize you. I thank you for your interest in me; and believe me, I remain,
Your sincere friend,
ANNETTE MARKHAM.
After a dreadful day, he came back to the Club and found a package,addressed in her hand. Out fell a little bundle of rags, topped by acomical black face, and a note. The letter of the morning was in afirm, correct han
d. This was a trembling scrawl, blotted with tears.And it read:
Dear, I have something terrible to write you. I must give you up. I cannot go into all the reasons now, and after all that would not help any, for it all comes to this--we must never see each other again. Please do not send me a letter, for though I should cover it with my kisses, in the end I would have to send it back unopened. I send you Black Dinah as I promised. It's all that's left of me now, and I want you to have it. Dearest, dearest, good-by.