III
MOON-RAYS
The dewy brightness of tangled blush roses had faded in the vague twilight; through the aisles of the little wood leading to the pool the light timidly flickered as Hubert and Elaine walked with the hesitating steps of perplexed persons. They had not spoken since they left the house—there in a few hurried words he told her of the accident and noted with sorrow the look of anguish in her eyes. Without knowing why, they went in the direction of the wall.
There was no moon when they reached the highroad. It would rise later, Elaine said in her low, slightly monotonous voice. Hubert was so stunned by the memory of his ruined picture that he forgot his earlier encounter with Berenice—that is, in describing it he had failed to minutely record his behaviour. But in the cool evening air his conscience became alive and he guiltily wondered whether he dare tell his misconduct—no, imprudence? Why not? She regarded him as a possible husband for Berenice—but how embarrassing! He made up his mind to say nothing; when the morrow came he would write Elaine the truth and bid her good-by. He could not in honour continue to visit this home where resided the woman he loved—with a jealous daughter. Why jealous? What a puzzle, and what an absurd one! He helped Elaine to a seat on the wall and sat near her. For several minutes neither spoke. They were again facing the pool, which looked in the dusk like a cracked mirror.
"It is not clear yet to me," murmured Elaine. "That the unfortunate child has always been more or less morbid and sick-brained, I have been aware. The world, marriage, and active existence will mend all that, I hope. I fear she is a little spoilt and selfish. And she doesn't love me very much. She has inherited all her father's passion for Poe's tales. My dear friend, she is jealous—that's the only solution of this shocking act. She disliked the idea of my portrait from the start. You remember on this spot hardly a month ago she challenged you to paint her as the drowned Ophelia!—and all her teasing about Monsieur Mineur and his jealousy, and—"
"Our flirtation," added Hubert, sadly.
"Oh, pray do not say such a thing! She is so hot-headed, so fond of you. Yes, I saw it from the beginning, and your talk about the insurmountable wall of middle-age did not deceive me. I only hope that will not be a tragic wall for her, for you—or for me...."
Her words trailed into a mere whisper. He put his hand over hers and again they were silent. About them the green of the forest had been transformed by the growing night into great clumps of velvety darkness and the vault overhead was empty of stars. June airs fanned their discontent into mild despair, and simultaneously they dreamed of another life, of a harmonious existence far from Paris, into which the phantom of Théophile Mineur would never intrude. Yet they made no demonstration of their affection—they would have been happy to sit and dream on this moon-haunted wall, near this nocturnal pool, forever. Hubert pictured Berenice in her room, behind bolted doors, lying across the bed weeping, or else staring in sullen repentance at the white ceiling. Why had she indulged in such vandalism? The portrait was utterly destroyed by the flaring smear laid on with a brush in the hand of an enraged young animal. What sort of a woman might not develop from this tempestuous girl! He knew that he had mortally offended her by his rudeness. But it was after, not before, the cruel treatment of his beloved work. Yet, how like a man had been his rapid succumbing to transitory temptation! For it was transitory—of that he was sure. The woman he loved, with a reverent love, was next to him, and if his pulse did not beat as furiously at this moment as earlier in the day, why—all the better. He was through forever with his boyish recklessness.
"Another peculiar thing," broke in Elaine, as if she had been thinking aloud, "is that Berenice has been pestering Éloise for her father's address."
"Her father's address?" echoed her companion.
"Yes; but whether she wrote to him Éloise could not say."
"Why should she write to him? She dislikes him—dislikes him almost as much—" he was about to pronounce his own name. She caught him up.
"Yes, that is the singular part of this singular affair. She felt slighted because you painted my portrait before hers. I confess I have had my misgivings. You should have been more considerate of her feelings, Hubert, my friend." She paused and sighed. For him the sigh was a spark that blew up the magazine of his firmest resolves. He had been touching her hands fraternally. His arm embraced her so that she could not escape, as this middle-aged man told his passion with the ardour of an enamoured youth.
"You dare not tell me you do not care for me! Elaine—let us reason. I loved you since the first moment I met you. It is folly to talk of Mineur and my friendship for him. I dislike, I despise him. It is folly to talk of Berenice and her childish pranks. What if she did cruelly spoil my work, our work! She will get over it. Girls always do get over these things. Let us accept conditions as they are. Say you love me—a little bit—and I'll be content to remain at your side, a friend, always that. I'll paint you again—much more beautifully than before." He was hoarse from the intensity of his feelings. The moon had risen and tipped with its silver brush the tops of the trees.
"And—my husband? And Berenice?"
"Let things remain as they are." He pressed her to him. A crackling in the underbrush and a faint plash in the lake startled them asunder. They listened with ears that seemed like beating hearts. There was no movement; only a night bird plaintively piped in the distance and a clock struck the quarter.
Elaine, now thoroughly frightened, tried to get down from the wall. Hubert restrained her, and as they stood thus, a moaning like the wind in autumnal leaves reached them. The moon-rays began to touch the water, and suddenly a nimbus of light formed about a floating face in the pool. The luminous path broadened, and to their horror they saw Berenice, her hair outspread, her arms crossed on her young bosom, lying in the little lake. Elaine screamed:—
"My God! My God! It is Berenice!—Berenice, I am punished for my wickedness to you!" Hubert, stunned by the vision, did not stir, as the almost fainting mother gripped his neck.
And then the eyes of the whimsical girl opened. A malicious smile distorted her pretty face. Slowly she arose, a dripping ghost in white, and pointing her long, thin fingers in the direction of the Ecouen road she mockingly cried:—
"There is some one to see your portrait at last, dear Master Painter." And saying this she vanished in the gloom, instantly followed by her agitated mother.
Hubert turned toward the wall, and upon it he recognized the stepfather of Berenice. After staring at each other like two moon-struck wights, the American spoke:—
"I swear that I, alone, am to blame for this—" The other wore the grin of a malevolent satyr. His voice was thick.
"Why apologize, Hubert? You know that it has been my devoted wish that you marry Berenice." He swayed on his perch. Hubert's brain was in a fog.
"Berenice!" said he.
"Yes—Berenice. Why not? She loves you."
"Then—you—Madame Mineur—" stammered Hubert. The Frenchman placed his finger on his nose and slyly whispered:—
"Don't be afraid! I'll not tell my wife that I caught Berenice with you alone in the park—you Don Juan! Now to the portrait—I must see that masterpiece of yours. Berenice wrote me about it." He nodded his head sleepily.
"Berenice wrote you about it!" was the mechanical reply.
"I'll join you and we'll go to the house." He tried to step down, but rolled over at Hubert's feet.
"What a joke is this champagne," he growled as he was lifted to his tottering legs. "We had a glorious time this afternoon before I left Paris. Hurrah! You're to be my son-in-law. And, my boy, I don't envy you—that's the truth. With such a little demon for a wife—I pity you, pity you—hurrah!"
"I am more to be despised," muttered Hubert Falcroft, as they moved away from the peaceful moonlit wall.