XXIII
It was well on toward evening before Barbara found herself watching with strained attention for the return of David. Late in the afternoon she had been visited with tardy contrition, which concerned itself more particularly with the coldness of her refusal to accompany him. For the moment she refused to go deeper, and consoled herself with careful preparation for supper. She would urge David to stay, she told herself; he would be hungry after the long drive. But at twilight the delicate biscuit and boiled ham, that David loved, and the yellow squares of sponge cake and the rich home-made preserves, which he had approved, were all ready. The small round table was set daintily for three, with shining silver and napery and the long-cherished pink china.
The sun had set cold and still after a brilliant day of high winds and flying clouds, and the big yellow moon slowly shouldering itself from behind the dark woods looked in at her festal preparations like an inquisitive face. Barbara shivered a little in her loneliness; then thinking still of the belated merry-makers, she fetched firewood and kindled a blaze on the hearth. The leaping light flickered over the waiting table and cast warm, life-like reflections on the dim old portraits on the wall.
They would surely come soon, she concluded, with a glance at the tall clock in the corner. But this faithful monitor of dead and gone generations of Prestons presently became quite intolerable, so loudly did it proclaim the lagging minutes. There seemed to be vague stirrings, too, in the shadows, like whispers sunk below the rim of sound. The painted eyes of father and grandfather, preternaturally wise in their perpetual mute observance, appeared to be pitying her young ignorance. They drove her forth at length into the chill of the autumn moonlight. Down by the stone gateway she could see the empty road winding away into obscurity on either hand, like a gray ribbon unbound and flung carelessly across the valley. A faint wind shook gusts of fragrance from the cone-laden pines, and away off among the orchards a little brown owl gurgled a mocking defiance to the moon.
She would have said, perhaps, that she was worried because David had not brought Jimmy home early, as he had promised. The child would be cold, hungry, tired; his little jacket was too thin; his limbs unprotected; but beneath these quasi-maternal misgivings lurked a keener anxiety, a more consuming fear. This it was that held her there, listening, listening—her whole being an insistent question, which would not be denied. This clamorous doubt had long been slowly growing in the mind which lies directly beneath consciousness, stirring now and again, like a child unborn, to lapse once more into quiescence. To-night, grown big and lusty, it thrust itself upon her, a full-grown conviction.
She could have told no one, least of all herself, how long she remained alone in the wan darkness, fighting her losing battle; but her hair and clothing were wet with frosty dew when at last she heard in the far distance the unbroken beat of hoofs. It was a fast horse, driven at furious speed; yet long before the vehicle drew up with a muttered exclamation from its occupant, at sight of her standing there in the moonlight, she knew it was not David.
“I’ve got the boy here, and he’s all right,” Jarvis said. “Get in and I’ll—explain.”
But he said nothing further in the brief interval that elapsed before they reached the house. Barbara had drawn the sleeping child into her arms, and held him jealously close to her numbed breast. She felt strangely still, unnaturally composed, as Jarvis took the child from her and helped her to alight.