XV
JOCELYN GOES TO WALK
A week passed quickly and pleasantly, but not uneventfully. We played golf and tennis, rode horseback, went for long rides in the automobile, and paid visits, and received them. It was well into July now, and most of the summer folks had arrived. Larry and Ned had lots of friends along the shore, and there were some very merry parties. Never a day passed that we hadn't somebody to luncheon, or dinner, or both, and Jocelyn's court grew by leaps and bounds. I couldn't see that Larry was improving his opportunities much those days. Almost every evening he went over to the House in the Hedge and sat with Mr. Reed, leaving Jocelyn to yawn herself sleepy with us. When there were no callers she went to bed ridiculously early, but it wasn't long before I discovered why. It all came out at breakfast table one morning.
“My dear,” said Aunt Myra, “early hours seem to agree with you. You look as fresh and blooming as a rose. Did you have a pleasant walk?”
Jocelyn colored and the rest of us stared in surprise.
“Very, thank you,” she answered. “The country is so lovely in the early morning.”
“To sleep in,” said Ned. “Only I do wish the chap that goes by here at seven o'clock wouldn't squawk his horn all the way along the pike. It disturbs my beauty-sleep.”
“Do you mean to say, Jocelyn,” I exclaimed, “that you've been walking before breakfast?”
“I've been out several times,” answered Jocelyn carelessly.
“A very good habit to get into,” said Aunt Myra, “and one that was far more popular in my day than it is now. Nowadays young folks seem to think that the day begins at nine o'clock.”
“That's very unkind,” I protested. “You know very well that I used to ride before breakfast almost every morning, when we first came up. Do let me walk with you some morning, Jocelyn. I love it. You get such a dandy appetite.”
“I wish you would,” she answered sweetly.
“I hope she won't,” growled Larry. He was rather cross these days. “If she develops any more appetite the rest of us won't get a look-in. If you don't want all the strawberries, sis, you might pass the dish along.”
I had tried very hard to get Jocelyn to confide to me more of her unhappy love affair, but there were few opportunities those days and she always put me off. When we went to bed that night, I said:
“Call me when you get up and I'll go to walk with you.
“I don't think I shall go to-morrow morning,” she answered with a yawn. “I think I shall be much too tired.”
So I borrowed Elise's alarm clock and set it for six. And when it went off, with a screech, I got up and wrapped myself in my dressing-gown and watched at the open window. It was broad daylight, but every thing was very still, and so when, presently, the front door at the House in the Hedge opened and closed, I heard it distinctly. Whoever went out remained invisible beyond the hedge. A few minutes later, I heard Jocelyn's door close softly and heard her go tiptoeing down the stairs. Then she appeared on the drive with a short white skirt and tennis shoes, and a white sweater, and turned down the road toward the House in the Hedge.
“Deceitful thing!” I whispered after her.
I wanted the worst way in the world to go back to bed, but I didn't. I had my bath and dressed and then went down and sat on the porch and shivered until, at a little before eight, Jocelyn came back. She saw me as soon as she turned in at the gate and so was quite prepared when she reached the house.
“Did you have a nice walk?” I asked.
“Yes, but it was almost too cool this morning. I wouldn't have gone except that I got awake and couldn't go to sleep again. If I'd known you were going to be such an early riser I'd have called you, dear.”
“I'm so sorry you didn't,” I said sweetly. “I'd love to have gone along. Where did you go?”
“Oh, just along the road for a mile or so.”
“Wasn't it lonely? Did you see anyone?”
The Major told someone once at dinner that his experience had taught him that if you wanted to know when a man was lying, you should watch his eyes, but that if it was a woman, you should watch her mouth. I watched Jocelyn's mouth and saw the corners of her lips quiver, as she answered lightly:
“Not a single, solitary soul, Marjorie.”
Afterwards I found that she hadn't lied, after all!
“It must have been very dull for you, dear,” I said. Then we wrapped our arms about each other and went upstairs.
I was convinced that she and Mr. Tully were meeting every morning, and I confess that I got very curious and excited about it. I wondered whether I ought to hint to Larry that it was no good, that Jocelyn didn't care a rap for him. Then it suddenly dawned on me that he already suspected the fact! Perhaps he had seen the light in her window that night. after all! If he had that accounted for a good many things; for his not noticing, or seeming to notice, that the chain bolt was on the door when he let me in; for his neglect of Jocelyn; for his irritable state of mind, which had been quite in evidence for days past. I decided that the best thing for me to do was to attend strictly to my own affairs and not talk.
I began to take a positive dislike to poor Mr. Tully. He had got into the habit of dropping over in the forenoons to sit for a half-hour or so on the porch or watch the tennis. He had very little to say and he and Jocelyn scarcely exchanged a dozen words. But I hated their deceitfulness, knowing what I did or thought I did. I'm afraid my own temper wasn't of the best those days. For one thing, the nice comfortable little chats with Mr. Reed were over with, and I missed them, even if he didn't; and it was quite plain that he didn't. His days as a recluse were done, for first Ned and then Jocelyn had found their way over there, and now every afternoon, one or an other was certain to be on hand. Sometimes we all went, and one day we had afternoon tea on the porch and Mr. Reed seemed to enjoy it all hugely. Even Aunt Myra attended. Mr. Tully announced that afternoon that he had finished his new book and sent it away, and we toasted him in orange Pekoe and drank to its success. And Fairfax, who had utterly deserted us by now, sat in the sun and blinked benignly.
When Ned announced that he would have to leave at the end of the week, and Jocelyn said that she, too, would have to be going, I wasn't nearly as sorry as I ought to have been. And Ned's departure meant losing Larry, too, for they were going to visit a college friend on Long Island. They were all to leave together on Saturday, and I suppose I ought to have been oppressed with a sense of impending loneliness, but I wasn't. By Thursday Mr. Tully was soberer and quieter than ever, and Jocelyn began to look very sad and white. I was really sorry for her, but I did think that she might have confided in me a little more. The morning walks continued, but you may be sure I never offered to accompany her again, nor was I ever invited.
On Thursday Mr. Tully came over earlier than usual and sat on the porch, and gazed across the lawn, and looked so utterly miserable that I pitied him, in spite of myself. Jocelyn was very quiet, too, and finally she got up suddenly and announced that she had a headache and was going up to lie down. She went in without looking at any of us, but I'm sure she was on the edge of tears. Ned shot a puzzled look after her, but Larry never raised his head from the handle of the golf-stick he was rewinding. A moment later, Mr. Tully arose and said he must be getting back, and trudged off down the drive, presenting a most disconsolate back to our view.
Well, as they say in stories, the storm was gathering, and I felt certain that something must happen pretty soon. And the next day it did.