It was well on in November, though summer seemed to have returned for a fleeting visit. But in spite of the warmth Good's heart was heavy as he trudged up the winding road, where death had almost overtaken him, and where the happiest chapter of his life had begun. He almost wished he were going again to interview the rich Miss Wynrod for The Workman's World.
But although, for the most part, his gaze was introspective, he was not wholly blind to the splendour of the world about him. Beside the road the oaks and maples seemed to bow and scrape to one another, garbed, like the Assyrian, in purple and gold, with here and there a flash of poignant scarlet. The distant hills, glowing warmly in the soft haze, were great strips of Scotch tweed. Now and again, borne on the breeze, came the pungent odour of burning leaves.
He halted, more than once, to draw a long breath and marvel at the glories of the scene. It was peaceful but not quiet. The fallen leaves rustled incessantly, and the squirrels, not at all deceived by this pretence of summer, went busily on with their preparations for what was coming, chattering volubly the while. The sound of a whistle drifted faintly from the distant railroad, that man and his works should not be forgotten, even here.
Good's clouded brow cleared, and the heaviness dropped from his heart. He had come from the clamorous city, with its strife, its falsities, its bitter disappointments; and presently he would return. But now, for one brief moment, in the midst of sweet, mysterious odours, and sweeter memories, he was very happy.
He kicked the leaves around his feet exultantly, like a boy, and tried to persuade every squirrel he saw to come and taste the mythical peanut he held in his fingers. The squirrels were wary, but a little dog limped up to him wagging a fragmentary tail and whining faintly. He stopped to analyse the whine, and as a result a troublesome burr ceased longer to trouble. The animal followed him the rest of the way to the Wynrod house.
The man turned at the gate. "Good-bye, friend," he said gravely. The dog wagged his whole body and barked twice. It was indisputable that he understood.
Good found Judith waiting for him in the library. As they shook hands he thought that he had never seen so lovely a creature. She was dressed in a riding costume of hunter green, which toned perfectly with the autumnal warmth of her skin. There was a wine-like sparkle in her eyes and her teeth gleamed in an unaffected smile as she greeted him. Apparently his presence was pleasing to her. But as he caught a glimpse of their reflections in the mirror over the fireplace, he wondered, a little dismally, how that were possible. She was so fresh and sound and glowing, and yet, withal, so dainty, so delicate, so thoroughly feminine: while he ... never, he thought, had he realised quite how awkward and grotesque a thing he was. The mirror was brutally candid. Beside her face, with its colouring of frost-ripened apple, his own stared back, telling its sordid tale of stuffy rooms and gas-light and greasy food and lack of exercise. With its seams and wrinkles it looked like a coat of white paint, yellowed and broken by over-long exposure to the elements. He was suddenly conscious that his suit was very old and ill-fitting, and that his hair needed cutting badly. For the first time in his life he suffered a pang of regret that the configuration of his neck prevented his wearing a collar which fit him.
As he looked down at her hand in his, smooth, well-formed, the fingers tapering delicately, yet with a flow of muscle under the integument revealing bridle-strength—for horse or man—he sighed. His own seemed so huge and formless, with its mountainous purple veins, its coarse black hair, like forests, and the spatulate nails—clumsy, broken, yellow where hers were pink ... hastily his hand sought his pocket.
"Well," she said, when the silence threatened to become embarrassing, "what's the news from the scene of action?"
He drew a bulky envelope from his coat, and tried to forget her physical presence. But to the familiar smell of burning leaves clung a faint scent of jaqueminot. His hand trembled a little as he turned the pages of the documents.