When the car had rounded the shoulder of the hill, Judith touched her husband’s arm. “Look, Lary, is that fire? Not the red of the foliage, but that film of smoke, away beyond the field.”
He followed the lead of her gaze, across a dun field dotted at more or less regular intervals with huge shocks of withered corn, beside some of which lay piles of yellow and white ears, husked and ready for the crib. Beyond this were broad acres of wheat stubble, glistening silver in the sun. And then the creek, half hidden from view by a tangle of wild grape and trumpet creeper that well-nigh suffocated the stunted trees along its bank. Over the field, the stream, the low woods beyond, was a silver mist that deepened first to azure, then to smoky purple, as it met the far horizon.
“That isn’t the result of fire, dear. That is our much vaunted Indian Summer haze. The Indians had a legend to explain it. Ask Theo to tell you. It’s one of her favourites.”
“Yes, yes.... I had forgotten. I shall always associate it with Dr. Schubert—the peace that came to him after the long years of tragedy and the final shock of sudden death. Lary, do you think....”
“I am afraid not, dearest. My mother was born in an off season. Nothing in her case works out on normal lines.”
Then they rode on in silence, each wondering how the other had caught the unvoiced question that was in both minds.
IV
The concert, for the benefit of the scholarship fund, the following evening, was the social event of the season. Mrs. Trench was disappointed in the dress Judith had bought for Eileen—a simple affair of white chiffon, in long graceful lines, over a satin slip that showed a tracery of silver threads—until she heard Mrs. Nims whisper to Mrs. Henderson that it must have been a late Paris importation. After that she caught the “style” her village eyes had not perceived. It was worth the price, to have Mrs. Nims say that to Mrs. Henderson.
But Eileen’s appearance, as she emerged upon the chapel stage from the sheltering screen of palms, was no disappointment to her mother. As the burst of spontaneous applause died away—the violinist bowing recognition, as graciously as if this were a matter of daily occurrence—she heard Kitten exclaim to the girls near her:
“Gee, isn’t she stunning! If ten weeks in New York could do that for Eileen Trench, ten days of it ought to make a howling beauty of me.” Then she clapped her hand to her mouth, remembering Mrs. Trench’s lynx-ears.