I coldly pointed to the other door.
‘So her room opens into yours, does it?’ he muttered with a bitter smile. ‘No wonder you preferred the “view”! Perhaps I can open it too?’ And he laid his hand upon the latch.
I smiled then, for bitter experience had taught me that it was always locked, locked to all my prayers and entreaties. Let him kneel there as I had! But it opened under his hand! I sprang to his side, and we looked into – a closet, two by four, as bare and shallow as an empty coffin!
He turned to me, as white with rage as I was with terror. I was not thinking of him.
‘What have you done with her?’ he cried. And then contemptuously – ‘That I should stop to question a liar!’
I paid no heed to him, but walked back into the other room, where the great chair rocked by the window.
He followed me, furious with disappointment, and laid his hand upon the swaying back, his strong fingers closing on it till the nails were white.
‘Will you leave this place?’ said he.
‘No,’ said I.
‘I will live no longer with a liar and a traitor,’ said he.
‘Then you will have to kill yourself,’ said I.
With a muttered oath he sprang upon me, but caught his foot in the long rocker, and fell heavily.
So wild a wave of hate rose in my heart that I could have trampled upon him where he lay – killed him like a dog – but with a mighty effort I turned from him and left the room.
When I returned it was broad day. Early and still, not sunrise yet, but full of hard, clear light on roof and wall and roadway. I stopped on the lower floor to find the landlady and announce my immediate departure. Door after door I knocked at, tried and opened; room after room I entered and searched thoroughly; in all that house, from cellar to garret, was no furnished room but ours, no sign of human occupancy. Dust, dust, and cobwebs everywhere. Nothing else.
With a strange sinking of the heart I came back to our own door.
Surely I heard the landlady’s slow, even step inside, and that soft, low laugh. I rushed in.
The room was empty of all life; both rooms utterly empty.
Yes, of all life; for, with the love of a lifetime surging in my heart, I sprang to where Hal lay beneath the window, and found him dead.
Dead, and most horribly dead. Three heavy marks – blows – three deep, three-cornered gashes – I started to my feet – even the chair had gone!
Again the whispered laugh. Out of that house of terror I fled desperately.
From the street I cast one shuddering glance at the fateful window.
The risen sun was gilding all the housetops, and its level rays, striking the high panes on the building opposite, shone back in a calm glory on the great chair by the window, the sweet face, down-dropped eyes, and swaying golden head.
Old Water
The lake lay glassy in level golden light. Where the long shadows of the wooded bank spread across it was dark, fathomless. Where the little cliff rose on the eastern shore its bright reflection went down endlessly.
Slowly across the open gold came a still canoe, sent swiftly and smoothly on by well-accustomed arms.
‘How strong! How splendid! Ah! she is like a Valkyr!’ said the poet; and Mrs Osgood looked up at the dark bulk with appreciative eyes.
‘You don’t know how it delights me to have you speak like that!’ she said softly. ‘I feel those things myself, but have not the gift of words. And Ellen is so practical.’
‘She could not be your daughter and not have a poetic soul,’ he answered, smiling gravely.
‘I’m sure I hope so. But I have never felt sure! When she was little I read to her from the poets, always; but she did not care for them – unless it was what she called “story poetry.” And as soon as she had any choice of her own she took to science.’
‘The poetry is there,’ he said, his eyes on the smooth brown arms, now more near. ‘That poise! That motion! It is the very soul of poetry – and the body! Her body is a poem!’
Mrs Osgood watched the accurate landing, the strong pull that brought the canoe over the roller and up into the little boathouse. ‘Ellen is so practical!’ she murmured. ‘She will not even admit her own beauty.’
‘She is unawakened,’ breathed the poet – ‘Unawakened!’ And his big eyes glimmered as with a stir of hope.
‘It’s very brave of her, too,’ the mother went on. ‘She does not really love the water, and just makes herself go out on it. I think in her heart she’s afraid – but will not admit it. O Ellen! Come here dear. This is Mr Pendexter – the Poet.’
Ellen gave her cool brown hand; a little wet even, as she had casually washed them at the water’s edge; but he pressed it warmly, and uttered his admiration of her skill with the canoe.
‘O that’s nothing,’ said the girl. ‘Canoeing’s dead easy.’
‘Will you teach it to me?’ he asked. ‘I will be a most docile pupil.’
She looked up and down his large frame with a somewhat questioning eye. It was big enough surely, and those great limbs must mean strength; but he lacked something of the balance and assured quickness which speaks of training.
‘Can’t you paddle?’ she said.
‘Forgive my ignorance – but I have never been in one of those graceful slim crafts. I shall be so glad to try.’
‘Mr Pendexter has been more in Europe than America,’ her mother put in hastily, ‘and you must not imagine, my dear, that all men care for these things. I’m sure that if you are interested, my daughter will be very glad to teach you, Mr Pendexter.’
‘Certainly,’ said Ellen.
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