Miss Davis had been in Bainbridge a week. Her cold was entirely better and her nerves, she said, much rested. "This is such a restful place," murmured Miss Davis, selecting her breakfast toast with care.
"I'm glad you find it so," said Aunt Caroline. "Though, with the club elections coming on next week—" she broke off to ask if Desire would have more coffee.
Desire would have no more, thanks. Miss Campion, looking over her spectacles, frowned faintly and took a second cup herself—an indulgence which showed that she had something on her mind. Her nephew, knowing this symptom, was not surprised when later she joined him on the side veranda. Being a prompt person she began at once.
"Benis," she said, "I have a feeling—I am not at all satisfied about Desire. If you know what is the matter with her I wish you would tell me. I am not curious. I expect no one's confidence, nor do I ask for it. But I have a right to object to mysteries, I think."
As Aunt Caroline spoke, she looked sternly at the smoke of the professor's after-breakfast cigarette, the blue haze of which temporarily clouded his expression. Benis took his time in answering.
"You think there is something the matter besides the heat?" he inquired mildly.
"Heat! It is only ordinary summer weather."
"But Desire is not used to ordinary summer, in Ontario."
"Nonsense. It can't be much cooler on the coast. Although I have heard people say that they felt quite chilly there. It isn't that."
"What is it, then?"
Not noticing that she was being asked to answer her own question, Aunt Caroline considered. Then, with a flash of shrewd insight, "Well," she said, "if there were any possible excuse for it, I should say that it is Mary Davis."
"My dear Aunt!"
"You asked me, Benis. And I have told you what I think. Desire has changed since Mary came. Before that she seemed happy. There was something about her—well, I admit I liked to look at her. And she seemed to love this place. Even that Yorick bird pleased her, a taste which I admit I could never understand. Now she looks around and sees nothing. The girl has some-thing on her mind, Benis. She's thinking."
"With some people thought is not fatal."
"I am serious, Benis."
"So am I."
"What I should like to know is—have you, by any chance, been flirting with Mary?"
"What?"
"Don't shout. You heard what I said perfectly. I do not wish to interfere. It is against my nature. But if you had been flirting with Mary, that might account for it. I don't believe Desire would understand. She might take it seriously. As for Mary—I am ashamed of her. I shall not invite her here again."
"This is nonsense, Aunt."
"Excuse me, Benis. The nonsense is on your side. I know what I am talking about, and I know Mary Davis. She is one of those women for whom a man obscures the landscape. She will flirt on her deathbed, or any-body else's deathbed, which is worse. Come now, be honest. She has been doing it, hasn't she?"
"Certainly not."
"I suppose you have to say that. I'll put it in another way. What is your opinion of Mary?"
"She is an interesting woman."
"You find her more interesting than you did upon her former visit?"
"I hardly remember her former visit. I never really knew her before."
"And you know her now?"
"She has honored me with a certain amount of confidence."
Aunt Caroline snorted. "I thought so. Well, she doesn't need to honor me with her confidence because I know her without it. Was she honoring you that way last night when you stayed out in the garden until mid-night?"
"We were talking, naturally."
"And—your wife?"
There was a moment's pause while the cigarette smoke grew bluer. "My wife," said Benis, "was very well occupied."
"You mean that when Dr. John saw how distrait and pale she was, he took her for a run in his car? Now admit, Benis, that you made it plain that you wished her to go."
"Did I?"
"Yes," significantly, "too plain. Mary saw it—and John. You are acting strangely, Benis. I don't like it, that's flat. Desire is too much with John. And you are too much with Mary. It is not a natural arrangement. And it is largely your fault. It is almost as if you were acting with some purpose. But I'll tell you this—whatever your purpose may be—you have no right to expose your wife to comment."
She had his full attention now. The cigarette haze drifted away.
"Comment?" slowly. "You mean that people—but of course people always do. I hadn't allowed for that. Which shows how impossible it is to think of everything. I'm sorry."
"I do not pretend to understand you, Benis. But then, I never did. Your private affairs are your own, also your motives. And I never meddle, as you know. I think though, that I may be permitted a straight question. Has your feeling toward Desire changed?"
"Neither changed nor likely to change."
Miss Campion's expression softened.
"Are you sure that she knows it?"
"I am not sure of anything with regard to Desire."
"Then you ought to be. Don't shilly-shally, Benis. It is a habit of yours. All of the Spences shilly-shally. Make certain that Desire is aware of your—er—affection. Mark my words—I have a feeling. She is fretting over Mary."
"I happen to know that she is not."
Small red flags began to fly from Miss Campion's prominent cheek-bones.
"We shall quarrel in a moment, Benis. You are pig-headed. Exactly as your father was, and without his common sense. I know you think me an interfering old maid. But I like Desire, and I won't have her made miserable. I want—"
"Hush—here she comes."
"Ill leave you then," in a sepulchral whisper. "And for goodness' sake, Benis, do something! ... Were you looking for me, my dear?" added Aunt Caroline innocently as Desire came slowly toward them. "Do not try to be energetic this morning. It is so very hot. Sit here. I'll send Olive out with something cool. I'd like you both to try the new raspberry vinegar."
Greatly pleased with her simple stratagem the good soul bustled away. Desire looked after her with a grateful smile.
"I believe Aunt Caroline likes me," she said with a note of faint surprise.
"Is that very wonderful?"
"Yes."
Benis looked at her quickly and looked away. She was certainly paler. She held her head as if its crown of hair were heavy.
"It does not seem wonderful to other people who also—like you."
Her eyes turned to him almost timidly. It hurt him to notice that the old frank openness of glance was gone. Good heavens! was the child afraid of him? Did she think that he blamed her? That he did not understand how helpless she was before her awakening womanhood? He forgot how difficult speech was in the overpowering impulse to reassure her.
"I wish you could be happy; my dear," he said. "You are so young. Can't you be a little patient? Can't you be content as things are—for a while?"
Even Spence, blinded as he was by the bitterness of his own struggle, noticed the strangeness of her look.
"You want things to go on—as they are?"
"Yes. For a time. We had better be quite sure. We do not want a second mistake."
"You see that there has been a mistake?"
"Can I help seeing it, Desire?"
"No, I suppose not.... And when you are sure?" Her voice was very low.
"When I—when we are both sure, I shall act. There are ways out. It ought not to be difficult."
"No, quite easy, I think. I hope it will not be long."
His mask of reasonable acquiescence slipped a little at the wistfulness of her voice.
"Don't speak like that!" he said sharply. "No man is worth it."
Desire smiled. It was such a sure, secret little smile, that it maddened him.
"You can't—you can't care like that!" he said in a low, furious tone. "You said you never could!"
"I do," said Desire.
It was the avowal which she had sworn she would never make. Yet she made it without shame. Love had taught Desire much since the day of the episode of the photograph. And one of its teachings had to do with the comparative insignificance of pride. Why should he not know that she loved him? Of what use a gift that is never given? Besides, as this leaden week had passed, she knew that, more than anything else, she wanted truth between them. Now, when he asked it of her, she gave him truth.
"It is breaking our bargain," she went on with a wavering smile. "But I was so sure! I cannot even blame myself. It must be possible to be quite sure and quite wrong at the same time."
"Yes. There is no blame, anywhere. I—I didn't think of what I was saying."
"Well, then—you will guess that it isn't exactly easy. But I will wait as you ask me. When you are quite sure—you will let me go?"
"Yes," he said.
Neither of them looked at the other.
Does Jove indeed laugh at lover's perjuries? Even more at their stupidities, perhaps!
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