That evening Jack went down to Larch Avenue. He found Fred and Sylvie up in arms. Indignation was a mild term.
It was a magnificent night, with a nearly full moon. The light flooded the wide lawn path, and made shadows of elves and gnomes on the porch, as the wind wandered in and out the great honeysuckle, whose ripe, rich perfume was shaken about with every waft. Within, an Argand lamp, and porcelain shade with a minute painting of Puck and his fairy host, sent a softened radiance on the old, rich-hued carpet, and antique furniture. It was but little changed, yet wore an indescribably antique look.
Over at an open window sat Irene Lawrence, dressed in white, with a single deep-red velvety rose at her throat, which Sylvie had pinned there. Her hair had grown rapidly, and, though it did not quite curl, the ends tumbled about loosely, framing in the face with their dusky purplish tint. It was very clear now, and a little pale; the old brilliant coloring had not all returned; the passionless grace, the deep eyes with their steady lights, the mouth suggesting mobility and warmth and passion, rather than defining it, the droop of the white lids, the unruffled brow, and the pose of the bowed head and slightly-yielding throat, made a marvellous picture.
The three were talking earnestly, as people do in the great crises of life; Sylvie wondrously piquant, with some thin, black, trailing stuff making shifting billows about her restless feet. She questioned Jack eagerly, she denounced the attack as cruel and cowardly. What did he mean to do? What should Fred do for him?
"There is nothing to do, but just wait for the result. The dragon's-teeth have been sown. The only comfort I have is, that you never can put a lie on the face of truth, and nail it there. No amount of arguing or talk can make a thing so when it is not so. Higher than this little human round, God garners every truth in his keeping, and will make it tell somewhere!"
Miss Lawrence raised her eyes, and glanced over to him. Had the slow impassiveness of her soul been touched, that this sudden peculiar grace of sympathy, or some hidden kindred feeling, rose and asserted itself? And yet she might have been in some magnetic sleep, for all actual movement of her features; it was the dawn of an expression that seemed to transport him to some strange world, where he had known her long ago,—where he had watched for her coming, listened to her voice,—rather than any present interest or meaning.
He rose abruptly.
"You are not going!" cried Sylvie, in her pretty wifely imperiousness.
"I"—for a moment he had the sensation of a man drowning. The surging waves were about him, throbbing, leaping, strangling him. There was a ringing in his ears, there was a long shuddering sensation, like being overwhelmed.
"It is very warm," he went on in a faint, strained voice, wiping the beaded drops from his broad brow.