But the torch which lighted Vashti Lansing’s way was not filched from flowers and sunshine, but shone fed with the evil oils of anger and revenge, baulked will and disappointed love.
CHAPTER VII.
The grey of twilight was paling the gold of the after-glow. A quiet hush had fallen upon the earth—rather intensified than disturbed by the lowing of far-away cattle. It was the quiet of raptured anticipation, as if great hands held the earth up to the baptismal font of the heavens to receive the chrism of night; and the earth, like a wise and reverent child, waited with hushed heart-beats for the benediction.
Sidney Martin waited in the porch for Vashti to keep her tryst, and presently he heard her footsteps. The echo of each step gathered in his heart, dilating it with happiness as an already full glass is brimmed above the brink by drop after drop. From his position, where he stood spellbound, he commanded an angled vista of the stairs, and slowly she descended within his range of vision; first the beautiful foot, proportioned so perfectly to the body it bore, then the long exquisite lines from heel to hip, and the yet more exquisite curve from hip to shoulder, and the melting graduation of breast to throat, and then the perfect face of her. She paused for a moment upon the last step, as if loath to step out of her pure rarefied atmosphere of maidenhood into the air vibrant with the sobs and sighs, the hopes and despairs, the gains and losses of human life; and standing thus, for one fleeting second there rose before Vashti a vision of renunciation. She saw herself, lonely but clad in righteousness, going on her way; but the next instant the austere dream vanished, brushed aside by a hateful, sneering cynicism. With a heart full of self-mockery, more evil than her evil intent, Vashti took the step to Sidney’s side, and stood there the typification, as he thought, of gentle dignity and dignified womanhood.
“How good you are,” he said gently.
They took the way almost in silence. She wondered vaguely where he would take her, to the far-away pastures, the little knolls nestling upon the hills which he loved, or to the oak trees where they had talked in the morning. When they reached the road she submitted her steps to his guidance with outward meekness and inward indifference. He turned away from Dole. It was to be the far-away pastures then—as well there as anywhere. But he had passed the gate! And then it dawned upon her. He was taking her to Mullein meadow!
Her indifference fell from her like a rent garment, bitter remembrance tore at her heart. How dare he bring her here and bid her masquerade amid these grey boulders where she had known such agony! She imagined those implacable rocks rejoicing in her humiliation. Were not her own curses yet hissing across the eerie barrenness of this wide waste field? Ah, even so, Vashti—if our curses do not seek us out we ourselves return to their realm; there is great affinity between a curse and the lips which utter it. The flame of her resentment fluttered to her cheeks, giving them an unwonted touch of rose. As they reached the entrance to Mullein meadow, she half stumbled; she recovered herself quickly, Sidney’s swift touch being hardly needed to restore her poise.
To Sidney, her silence, the strange, sweet colour in her cheeks, her uncertain step, pointed but to one thing—the natural agitation of a girl about to have a man’s love laid at her feet.
Surely never man was so exquisitely befooled as this one?