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And here came Deb, gliding towards him by a path that he could not see,
holding her lace skirts tightly bunched in her nervous hands. Youth to
youth, beauty to beauty, man to woman, woman to man, the magnet to the
steel--they were just elements of the elements, for once in their
lives.
"How fortunate that I put on black tonight," thought Deb, as she
pursued her stealthy way at the back of bushes--"and something that
does not rustle!"
"How beautiful she was tonight!" thought Claud. "How a dark dress
throws up that superb neck of hers! I'll take her to Europe, and show
her to the sculptors and painters; but where's the hand that could
carve that shape, or the paint that could give her colour? I'll
have a London season with her, and see her snuff out the milk-and-water
debutantes. No milk-and-water about Deb--wine and fire!--and withal
so proud and unapproachable. That hulking brute imagines--but he'll
find his mistake if he attempts to cross the line. Beauty, passion,
purity--what a blend! She's a woman alone--the blue rose of women--
and she is mine." He murmured, to some cadence of a Schubert serenade:
"My Deb! My love! My love! My queen!" and suddenly stopped short in his
musings.
Her foot crunched the gravel behind him. Without turning his head, he
sat alertly motionless for several minutes, listening, holding his
breath. Then he dropped his cigar gently.
"Fine night, Deb," he remarked aloud.
There was no immediate answer, but presently a low chuckle from the
laurel bushes.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked, imitating his casual tone.
"Couldn't explain, I'm sure. It was borne in on me, somehow."
"You did not see me."
"I don't want to see, in your case. I feel you."
There was another brief silence, and then she rustled off a step or
two.
"Well, good-night! I just came out to look for a book I left here
somewhere."
"What book?" "It doesn't matter. It is too late to read tonight,
anyhow."
"It spoils books to leave them out all night. I will help you to find
it." He got up, and pretended to look about. "It is not on this seat--"
"Perhaps Miss Keene has taken it in. She is always after me to
pick up my litters. It won't rain, anyway, so it doesn't matter."
"No, it won't rain tonight. Awfully nice night, isn't it? I came over
here to get a quiet smoke and let those fellows subside a bit. I could
not stand their noise, and the place is stifling."
"I'm afraid so. I'm so sorry we have to put you there; but you know--"
"Oh, of course! I don't mind a bit. It is hot indoors, wherever you
are. If it were not for the mosquitoes, it would be nice to sleep in
hammocks under the trees this weather." "I have often thought so. I
can't breathe shut up. Rose is in my room tonight, and she seems like a
whole crowd. I had to come out to cool myself." "And to get your book.
What book was it?" "The--er--Clough's poems." "How many copies have
you?--because one of them has been in my pocket for two days."
"Well, I don't want it. Good-night!"
She put out her hand. He took it and held it. The moonlight now was
very bright, but not bright enough to reveal his smile or her blush.
However, neither could be hidden from the second sight of love. "Don't
go yet, Debbie. I never get a word with you these days, you are so
taken up with all sorts of people. And you haven't had time to get cool
yet. I know you haven't--by the feel of your hand."
She tried to withdraw it, but did not try very hard.
"My dear boy," she trembled, "do you know what time it is? It must be
simply ALL hours."
"What does that matter? We are not keeping anybody up." "And
there's tomorrow to be considered. Christmas Eve is always such a busy,
tiring--"
"Sufficient for the day. Let us take things as we can get them.
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Cambridge, Ada, 1844-1926 - Sisters