V
“Stopping here?” cried a delighted voice.
Odd, how people keep on existing, completely unaware how superfluous they are! Jacqueline turned from her contemplation of the moonlit sea to the vastly inferior spectacle of Mr. Terrill, and answered him as civilly as she could just then.
“Yes,” she said, “for a rest.”
“Not a very quiet place for a rest,” remarked Terrill.
“I don’t like quiet places,” Jacqueline replied impatiently.
He was charmed with this. The more unreasonable she was, the more he liked her.
“I enjoy a place like this,” he went on; “but not for a rest. What appeals to me is the stimulation one finds in a motley crowd like this.”
“Bah!” said Jacqueline, under her breath.
If he would only go away and leave her alone! His voice and his presence were an intolerable exasperation to her. She wanted Barty—and, failing Barty, she wanted to think of him undisturbed; but Mr. Terrill continued to exist, unabashed.
“It’s a curious thing,” he continued, “the transformation that certain qualities of light can effect. Of course, it’s been pretty thoroughly studied in the theater; but to the average mortal—well, moonlight, for instance. I’ve seen your face in lamplight and in the sunlight, but now, in the light of the moon—”
“It makes every one look ghastly, doesn’t it?” Jacqueline interrupted hastily. “I hate it!”
“Hate moonlight, Miss Miles?” said he, mildly reproachful.
“Yes!” she answered stoutly. “I’m not one of those sentimental idiots!”
He seemed to grasp her meaning, for he asked, in quite a different tone, cheerful and matter-of-fact, if he might come down to visit her while she was stopping here.
“Oh, but—” said Jacqueline, dismayed. “You see, Mr. Terrill, I—”
He waited patiently for the reason why he must not come to see Miss Miles, and she tried hard to think of one.
“Well,” she said lamely, “you probably wouldn’t find me at the hotel. I—I take long walks, and I shouldn’t like you to come all that way from the city, you know, and not find me.”
“I’d take a longer trip than that, any day,” said Terrill, “just on the chance of seeing you!”
She had to let that pass. There was no way of explaining to him; but she made up her mind that he should not find her in, whenever he might come.
The next morning she had a letter from Barty. He wrote:
You should have seen Stafford when I got back. There he was, sitting in the dark. I told him I’d thought better of it—took all the credit for your idea, little Jacko, but what else could I do?[Pg 212]
I see now that you were right. It was so hard to leave you that I couldn’t see it then. All the way back on the train I was thinking things about you that you wouldn’t have liked. I thought you were a cold-blooded little beast to send me away like that; but after I’d seen poor old Stafford, I saw how right you were. You know, Jacko, I’d have given up Stafford, or anything else on earth, for that week with you, but you wouldn’t let me make a fool of myself. I’ve got it in me, you know, Jacko. I could make the most exalted, glorious sort of fool of myself, and I’d enjoy it; but you’ll always be my sensible little pal.
Jacqueline put down the letter and sat for a time staring before her, with a very odd expression on her face. Then she took it up and finished it.
Address letters in care of Jordan Galloway, Philipsville, Long Island. That is the nearest village, and I’ll go there for the mail whenever I get a chance; but don’t worry if you don’t hear from me every day, dear girl, because sometimes I may not be able to get into the village.
And then many affectionate messages, and a check, “so that you can stay where you are for another week.”
This check was the first money Barty had ever given her. He had paid for things—dinners, taxis, and so on—and he had bought her presents, but this was different. If she was his friend, his pal, why should she let him do this?
He warned her in his letter not to swim out too far. They had often bathed together. She was a good swimmer, strong and sound of wind, and she knew Barty was proud of her; but she could not swim as well as he. He could always have outdistanced her easily, if he had wished, but the idea of competition had never occurred to them. They were pals, friends, equals; but in almost everything he was stronger and more skillful.
He earned four times as much as she, and he was going forward while she stood still. When they went walking, she always tired first. Whatever they undertook, he did better than she, and it seemed to them both so much a matter of course that she had never thought of it before.
She looked about her, at those rooms, so terribly empty without Barty. She had made him go. She had sent away her man, telling him that she could do without him; but could she? He would do very well with Stafford. He would enjoy himself, no doubt, but how was it with her, left alone here, and sick at heart, longing and longing for Barty?
Suppose she had done wrong not to let him be a “glorious fool”? Suppose it was all a mistake to try to be a pal?