By a simple manœuvre the Countess Nattatorrini arranged to have the house to herself the following evening. She, with her sister, had accepted an invitation to play euchre at Mayme Townsend's, but, shortly before supper, she pleaded a headache, insisting, however, that her sister should keep the engagement. Lou, a little hesitantly, departed without her about half-past seven; the Countess, then, ascended to her chamber. Once alone in her room, the thought came to her that Gareth had not answered her note, had not let her know whether he was coming or not, and she occupied a bad five minutes considering the chances of his disappointing her. Suppose he should not turn up after all! This was sufficient cause for alarm; nevertheless, automatically, but persistently, she went on with her preparations to receive him, if only to distract her mind and destroy her impatience. It was an extremely warm evening and she chose to wear on this occasion, the most important, she felt, of any that she had yet spent in Maple Valley, a pale yellow frock. The sleeves, bulging slightly at the shoulder, were tight from there to the wrist and were bound with circles of green ribbon, edged with tiny frills of yellow lace. Filmy lace also spilled from either side of the high collar, below which a square cape-collar, adorned with more green ribbon and lace, spread over her shoulders. The waist-band, too, was fashioned of green ribbon, and into this, from a vase standing on her dresser, she inserted one full-blown red rose. Searching her jewel-case, she pondered over the profusion of sunbursts, rings, and brooches, leaving them, finally, in their places. She determined to wear no ornaments this evening. There was a virginal quality in this abstinence which appealed to her imagination. Her face she made up to appear very pale; she accented her eyelashes and eyelids with a pencil and placed the minimum of rouge high on her cheek-bones, with a dab on her chin and on her forehead above each eye. This slightly eccentric make-up was so skilfully executed as to appear almost natural.
After she had completed her toilet by spraying herself with heliotrope, the Countess lighted the remaining gas-jets (there were four on the sidewalls besides the six in the chandelier) and sat down before the mirror over her bureau to regard herself, a habit that, of late, she found growing on her. Twenty years ago, she reflected, I would have dressed hurriedly, with hardly a glance at myself, but now . . . She scanned her face carefully; on a dimly lit porch, she fully believed, and not without some justification, she might pass for thirty-five. Her happiness had quickly ironed out the puffs under her eyes; the frown which occasionally disfigured the keystone of her brow had utterly vanished. The lines under her sagging but now well-supported chin were concealed beneath the high, close-fitting collar. She thanked God and Monsieur Worth for this mode. She had laced herself so tightly that her waist appeared to be almost slender. Above and below her waist-line her breasts and her hips curved pleasingly. A trifle too stout, her figure was still good. She must be more careful of her diet, she assured herself, not too ruefully.
Now that she was ready, again she became the prey of her anxiety and impatience. Fully dressed, she had nothing to occupy her mind until the youth arrived, and the question once more became paramount: Would he arrive? The reflection that he would almost certainly have informed her if he were not coming somewhat reassured her; she was able to derive some small comfort from this belief and, after extinguishing the gas, she descended the stairs. The servants were still busy in the rear of the house, completing the tasks of the day, preparing to retire. The Countess had announced at supper her intention of going to bed immediately, and Lou had told Anna that under the circumstances it would not be necessary for her to wait up to answer the bell.
It was exactly eight-fifteen when the Countess opened the screen-door and walked out to the porch. It was still twilight; darkness had not yet fallen, but a lamp-lighter was lighting the street-lamp at the corner. On the porch opposite, to the accompaniment of shouts of ribald laughter, the Atkinson twins were entertaining their boy friends. The Countess recognized the voices of Chet Porter and Ray Cameron. From another house, a little farther away, drifted the tinkle of mandolins. In the street below a band of children had gathered around a bon-fire. Another group was playing Pom-Pom-Pullaway and Prisoner's Base. She could hear the shrill treble of a boy's voice counting out:
Catch a nigger by the toe,
When he hollers let him go,
Eenie, meenie, minie, moe.
A little later, yet more shrilly, this variant:
Feenie, feenie, finie, foe,
Amanutser, papatutser,
Ring-a-ban-JO!
Then the inevitable: You're IT! Victorias, landaus, surreys passed, their wheels rattling, the horses' hoofs clattering, on the worn cedar-blocks of the pavement. The Countess recognized some of the occupants of these vehicles. Hats were lifted; bows exchanged.
The air was delicious; it was warm but it bore a delicately ambiguous fragrance as its essence. The flowers in the garden seemed to be expelling their odours like incense-burners in Chinese pagodas. The Countess could not separate these odours or identify them; she merely enjoyed the impression of a pleasant and sensual aroma. The porch was attractive. Woodbine and Virginia creeper clambered over a wire trellis, concealing a nook of the porch from the view of the street. Baskets bound in moss, in which ferns were growing, hung from chains attached to the ceiling. There were wicker-chairs and tables, cushions and rugs. On one of the tables lay a pile of magazines: Harper's. The Critic, Scribner's, and a novel that Lou had been reading that afternoon, Margaret Deland's The Wisdom of Fools. The Countess lifted a palm-leaf fan and languidly waved it back and forth.
Clatter, clatter, clatter, rumble, rumble, rumble: hoofs and wheels on the pavement. . . . Tinkle, tinkle, from the mandolins. . . . You're out! . . . Shinny on your own side! . . . On the porch opposite the young people were singing:
Ask thy soul if we should part!
As she recognized this tune which she had not heard for so many years, the Countess smiled and began to hum it to herself. The chirping of a cricket caught her fleeting attention: good luck, she assured herself. The cicade were scraping their anatomical violas in the trees. The Countess sank into a light revery: how pleasant all this was, and it was hers to enjoy; the strength of her emotions had cast all the people of this place out of her consciousness; only the place remained as a background, how suitable she would soon discover, for her future designs. She felt exactly as she had felt with Tony in Arles or Avignon, surrounded by strangers. . . . She frowned ever so slightly; she did not like this even so ephemeral impingement of Tony on her memory. Why didn't he come? It was growing darker.
My Bonnie lies over the sea,
My Bonnie lies over the ocean,
O, bring back my Bonnie to me!
Brrrrrring back!
Brrrrrring back!
Bring back my Bonnie to me, to ME!
Brrrrrring back . . .
The Countess started. Good evening, she said, I was beginning to fear you hadn't received my note. How handsome he was! She was grateful for the shadows of night. Her heart was palpitating; she could feel the colour flooding her cheeks. As she touched his cool fingers her hand trembled.
Good evening, he replied. I should have answered your letter. I was so glad to receive it. I was afraid after I missed you yesterday that it wouldn't be . . . that you . . . I didn't know how soon I could come again.
Apparently she was not listening. You don't know what you've done for me, she went on, waving Gareth to a seat. I was quite desperate until I met you. It doesn't seem as if I had talked of anything but the water-works and the new depot since I came to Maple Valley.
Gareth grinned. I know, he assented. It's awful, especially for strangers. It's bad enough when you live here.
When you approached me the other evening and began to ask me about myself, I nearly fainted, the Countess continued. It was a shock. Not that I want to talk about myself to you. I don't, at all. I want to know all about you, but the excuse, the reason, for my interest in you is that you pretended to be interested in me.
I wasn't pretending, Gareth replied, very quietly. I am interested in you, more interested than I have ever been in anybody before.
The heart of the Countess was thumping violently. Can I keep my hands away from him? she demanded of herself, and then replying to her unuttered question: But, old goose, it isn't your body that interests him, it's what you stand for, your education, your past, your experience, your mind, your background . . . and she silently adjured herself to have patience.
You know, Gareth continued, what it is like here. Somehow I was born different, but I've never been able to get away, never seen anything else, except in my imagination. There was nobody . . . he hesitated for an instant as he thought of Lennie Colman, and then rushed on: absolutely nobody to talk to here, until . . . tantalizingly, he paused.
The Countess's eyelids fluttered. Yes, she queried, faintly, until . . . ?
Until you came.
But can't you get away? she forced herself to demand of him. Aren't you going to college, for instance?
That's just it, I can't. My mother says yes; my father says no. He can afford it all right, Gareth added bitterly, but he doesn't see the use of an education. . . . There would be no use of it if I went into business as he wants me to . . . and he's obstinate. My mother might bring him round perhaps, but she's ill, too ill. I can't let her argue with him any more; I've given up.
Poor boy, I'm so sorry, so sorry; the Countess's tone was more than sympathetic, but Gareth's remarks had relieved her mind of an insistent anxiety. I've met a Mrs. Johns somewhere, she went on tentatively. Is that . . . ?
Yes, that must have been mother. We're the only Johns family in Maple Valley.
A charming woman, the Countess asseverated, although she had no recollection of her at all. I liked her at once, so simple . . .
She's adorable, my mother . . . If it had not been for her . . .
And your father won't let you go away? How, for the moment, she worshipped Gareth's father!
No.
Well, Gareth . . . I think I'm old enough to call you Gareth . . . then make the best of it. Come to see me as often as you like. I'm not going away for a long time. Perhaps, I'll plan to live here. Let's make the best of it between us. You amuse me and I will try to amuse you!
Countess!
Begin. You'll soon see.
Begin?
Anything. We'll talk about the sky at Rimini, or the Winter Palace at St. Petersburg, or .
There's so much I want to ask about, but that wont amuse you; that will only amuse me.
You don't know me at all, Gareth. Anybody who is sympathetic amuses me . . . and you are sympathetic.
You're sympathetic to me, too.
Again the flame of a hungry tiger flashed in the Countess's eye. She was entirely unaccustomed to self-leashing, but she contrived to hold herself in check.
Let's make some lemonade, she suggested hurriedly. It's so warm, and I'm thirsty. The servants have gone to bed.
She led the way through the dimly lit house into the great kitchen, with its white wainscot, its blue plaster walls, its range, its tubs for laundry, its white enamelled sink, its white tables. The floor was the colour of the natural wood, unpolished and unpainted, but scoured almost white.
Chop some ice, Gareth. I'll show you. She led him to the refrigerator on the back porch. Then she searched for lemons and sugar, the squeezer. Soon she was dividing lemons and pressing the juice into a pitcher. Gareth imported two lumps of ice and washed them in the sink.
The Countess began to laugh. If I could have imagined six months ago that I would be back in the kitchen of my old home squeezing lemons with a boy whom I've just met!
Gareth was silent.
I love lemonade, she went on. I hadn't drunk any in years before I came here.
So do I, he responded.
O, we'll make lots of it . . . often. There! She stirred in the sugar and, holding the pitcher under the faucet, filled it with water. Then, discovering a tray and two glasses in a cupboard, she set the pitcher on the tray and was about to lead the way back to the porch when she hesitated.
Do you speak German? she queried suddenly.
No, I am ashamed to say. I know a few words, and a few words of French. The language teachers here are so bad. I want to learn languages.
You will, the Countess said. You are the kind of boy who learns anything easily. It will be a pleasure for me to teach you. But it doesn't matter now. I only wanted to suggest that we drink Brüderschaft.
I understand that.
Filling the glasses from the pitcher, she handed one to him. The other she lifted herself, and clinked it against his.
Friends and allies? she scarcely whispered.
He was silent, but assenting.
Repeat it after me, she insisted.
Friends and allies. His tone was fervent.
For ever.
For ever!
Now! Isn't the town more amusing already?
I want to die here now! he assured her.
Live here, you mean! We'll both live here.
It means something now.
Places are nothing, nothing, she said. It really doesn't matter where you are. It's the people who count.
Bearing the tray, she led the way back through the house. The clock in the library was striking the half-hour. It was very dark now on the porch. The moon had not yet risen. There was no light but that dim one which flickered through the vineleaves from the street-lamp on the corner. The young men visiting the twins had departed, the playing children returned home to bed, but the fiddling of locusts, the chirping of crickets persisted. Occasionally a lightning-bug flashed phosphorescence in the air. Now the mandolins tinkled again, and a voice was singing:
That is the name I love!
It's sweet as the perfume of roses;
It's soft as the coo of the dove.
My sweetheart may call me his darling
His queen or his sugar-plum, may be,
But 'tween you and me
I'd rather that he
Would call me his dear little baby!
The two sat silent, a little apart, but neither felt uncomfortable. Some strange electric current seemed to be flowing between them. She was tense, excited, expectant. He was rapturous. He could not remember that he had ever been so happy.
She broke the silence. Do you mind if I smoke? she asked.
O, please do; I've never seen a woman smoke.
She lighted her cigarette and offered him another, which he refused. It was an experiment he did not care to try for the first time in the presence of the Countess.
What are you doing tomorrow? she queried, after another short pause.
Whatever you want to do.
I know so little about this town, except the water-works and the new . . .
He groaned. There are really lovely walks in the country, he suggested.
The very thing. Come for me tomorrow at eleven. We could drive . . . she considered . . . No, tomorrow, I think I'd rather walk.
After they had talked a little longer, he rose. I must go, he said.
Good-night, Gareth. Remember: demain a onze heures.
What was that?
She laughed. Tomorrow at eleven.
I'll be here.
Friends and allies!
Friends and allies!
For ever!
For ever!
He clasped her hand and walked down the steps. Standing by the railing, she watched him until his retreating figure was shut from her view. A heayenly odour was borne in on the night air. Fireflies gleamed intermittently in the vines. The moon was rising. The Countess hummed the Clair de lune from Werther softly to herself. Then, entering the house, absent-mindedly she altered this to, My Bonnie lies over the . . . swiftly she interrupted herself. He doesn't! she cried. He doesn't! He doesn't! she repeated as she ascended the staircase. Then, in a tone which added a consecration to the phrase she murmured: Io t'amo, Gareth! Io t'amo! Io t'amo . . . mon petit chou!