At first, and for the five days that he lingered, the young violinist monopolized1 nearly her entire time of visibility. Often Graham strayed into the music room, and, quite neglected by the pair, sat for moody2 half-hours listening to their “work.” They were oblivious3 of his presence, either flushed and absorbed with the passion of their music, or wiping their foreheads and chatting and laughing companionably in pauses to rest. That the young musician loved her with an ardency4 that was almost painful, was patent to Graham; but what hurt him was the abandon of devotion with which she sometimes looked at Ware5 after he had done something exceptionally fine. In vain Graham tried to tell himself that all this was mental on her part—purely delighted appreciation6 of the other’s artistry. Nevertheless, being man, it hurt, and continued to hurt, until he could no longer suffer himself to remain.
Once, chancing into the room at the end of a Schumann song and just after Ware had departed, Graham found Paula still seated at the piano, an expression of rapt dreaming on her face. She regarded him almost unrecognizingly, gathered herself mechanically together, uttered an absent-minded commonplace or so, and left the room. Despite his vexation and hurt, Graham tried to think it mere7 artist-dreaming on her part, a listening to the echo of the just-played music in her soul. But women were curious creatures, he could not help moralizing, and were prone8 to lose their hearts most strangely and inconsequentially. Might it not be that by his very music this youngster of a man was charming the woman of her?
With the departure of Ware, Paula Forrest retired9 almost completely into her private wing behind the door without a knob. Nor did this seem unusual, Graham gleaned10 from the household.
“Paula is a woman who finds herself very good company,” Ernestine explained, “and she often goes in for periods of aloneness, when Dick is the only person who sees her.”
“Which is not flattering to the rest of the company,” Graham smiled.
“Which makes her such good company whenever she is in company,” Ernestine retorted.
The driftage through the Big House was decreasing. A few guests, on business or friendship, continued to come, but more departed. Under Oh Joy and his Chinese staff the Big House ran so frictionlessly and so perfectly12, that entertainment of guests seemed little part of the host’s duties. The guests largely entertained themselves and one another.
Dick rarely appeared, even for a moment, until lunch, and Paula, now carrying out her seclusion13 program, never appeared before dinner.
“Rest cure,” Dick laughed one noon, and challenged Graham to a tournament with boxing gloves, single-sticks, and foils.
“And now’s the time,” he told Graham, as they breathed between bouts14, “for you to tackle your book. I’m only one of the many who are looking forward to reading it, and I’m looking forward hard. Got a letter from Havely yesterday—he mentioned it, and wondered how far along you were.”
So Graham, in his tower room, arranged his notes and photographs, schemed out the work, and plunged15 into the opening chapters. So immersed did he become that his nascent16 interest in Paula might have languished17, had it not been for meeting her each evening at dinner. Then, too, until Ernestine and Lute18 left for Santa Barbara, there were afternoon swims and rides and motor trips to the pastures of the Miramar Hills and the upland ranges of the Anselmo Mountains. Other trips they made, sometimes accompanied by Dick, to his great dredgers working in the Sacramento basin, or his dam-building on the Little Coyote and Los Cuatos creeks19, or to his five-thousand-acre colony of twenty-acre farmers, where he was trying to enable two hundred and fifty heads of families, along with their families, to make good on the soil.
That Paula sometimes went for long solitary20 rides, Graham knew, and, once, he caught her dismounting from the Fawn21 at the hitching22 rails.
Paula laughed and shook her head.
“There’s Lute, and Ernestine, and Bert, and all the rest.”
“This is new country,” he contended. “And one learns country through the people who know it. I’ve seen it through the eyes of Lute, and Ernestine and all the rest; but there is a lot I haven’t seen and which I can see only through your eyes.”
“But without the ill effects of vampirism,” he urged quickly.
Her answer was slow in coming. Her look into his eyes was frank and straight, and he could guess her words were weighed and gauged26.
“I don’t know about that,” was all she said finally; but his fancy leaped at the several words, ranging and conjecturing27 their possible connotations.
“But we have so much we might be saying to each other,” he tried again. “So much we... ought to be saying to each other.”
“So I apprehend,” she answered quietly; and again that frank, straight look accompanied her speech.
So she did apprehend—the thought of it was flame to him, but his tongue was not quick enough to serve him to escape the cool, provoking laugh as she turned into the house.
Still the company of the Big House thinned. Paula’s aunt, Mrs. Tully, much to Graham’s disappointment (for he had expected to learn from her much that he wanted to know of Paula), had gone after only a several days’ stay. There was vague talk of her return for a longer stay; but, just back from Europe, she declared herself burdened with a round of duty visits which must be performed before her pleasure visiting began.
O’Hay, the critic, had been compelled to linger several days in order to live down the disastrous28 culmination29 of the musical raid made upon him by the philosophers. The idea and the trick had been Dick’s. Combat had joined early in the evening, when a seeming chance remark of Ernestine had enabled Aaron Hancock to fling the first bomb into the thick of O’Hay’s deepest convictions. Dar Hyal, a willing and eager ally, had charged around the flank with his blastic theory of music and taken O’Hay in reverse. And the battle had raged until the hot-headed Irishman, beside himself with the grueling the pair of skilled logomachists were giving him, accepted with huge relief the kindly30 invitation of Terrence McFane to retire with him to the tranquillity31 and repose32 of the stag room, where, over a soothing33 highball and far from the barbarians34, the two of them could have a heart to heart talk on real music. At two in the morning, wild-eyed and befuddled35, O’Hay had been led to bed by the upright-walking and unshakably steady Terrence.
“Never mind,” Ernestine had told O’Hay later, with a twinkle in her eye that made him guess the plot. “It was only to be expected. Those rattle-brained philosophers would drive even a saint to drink.”
“I thought you were safe in Terrence’s hands,” had been Dick’s mock apology. “A pair of Irishmen, you know. I’d forgot Terrence was case-hardened. Do you know, after he said good night to you, he came up to me for a yarn36. And he was steady as a rock. He mentioned casually37 of having had several sips38, so I... I... never dreamed ... er... that he had indisposed you.”
When Lute and Ernestine departed for Santa Barbara, Bert Wainwright and his sister remembered their long-neglected home in Sacramento. A pair of painters, proteges of Paula, arrived the same day. But they were little in evidence, spending long days in the hills with a trap and driver and smoking long pipes in the stag room.
The free and easy life of the Big House went on in its frictionless11 way. Dick worked. Graham worked. Paula maintained her seclusion. The sages39 from the madrono grove40 strayed in for wordy dinners—and wordy evenings, except when Paula played for them. Automobile41 parties, from Sacramento, Wickenberg, and other valley towns, continued to drop in unexpectedly, but never to the confusion of Oh Joy and the house boys, whom Graham saw, on occasion, with twenty minutes’ warning, seat a score of unexpected guests to a perfect dinner. And there were even nights—rare ones—when only Dick and Graham and Paula sat at dinner, and when, afterward42, the two men yarned43 for an hour before an early bed, while she played soft things to herself or disappeared earlier than they.
But one moonlight evening, when the Watsons and Masons and Wombolds arrived in force, Graham found himself out, when every bridge table was made up. Paula was at the piano. As he approached he caught the quick expression of pleasure in her eyes at sight of him, which as quickly vanished. She made a slight movement as if to rise, which did not escape his notice any more than did her quiet mastery of the impulse that left her seated.
She was immediately herself as he had always seen her—although it was little enough he had seen of her, he thought, as he talked whatever came into his head, and rummaged44 among her songs with her. Now one and now another song he tried with her, subduing45 his high baritone to her light soprano with such success as to win cries of more from the bridge players.
“Yes, I am positively46 aching to be out again over the world with Dick,” she told him in a pause. “If we could only start to-morrow! But Dick can’t start yet. He’s in too deep with too many experiments and adventures on the ranch47 here. Why, what do you think he’s up to now? As if he did not have enough on his hands, he’s going to revolutionize the sales end, or, at least, the California and Pacific Coast portion of it, by making the buyers come to the ranch.”
“But they do do that,” Graham said. “The first man I met here was a buyer from Idaho.”
“Oh, but Dick means as an institution, you know—to make them come en masse at a stated time. Not simple auction48 sales, either, though he says he will bait them with a bit of that to excite interest. It will be an annual fair, to last three days, in which he will be the only exhibitor. He’s spending half his mornings now in conference with Mr. Agar and Mr. Pitts. Mr. Agar is his sales manager, and Mr. Pitts his showman.”
“But, oh, if only we could get away—Timbuctoo, Mokpo, or Jericho.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve ever been to Mokpo,” Graham laughed.
She nodded. “Cross my heart, solemnly, hope to die. It was with Dick in the All Away and in the long ago. It might almost be said we honeymooned50 in Mokpo.”
And while Graham exchanged reminiscences of Mokpo with her, he cudgeled his brain to try and decide whether her continual reference to her husband was deliberate.
“I should imagine you found it such a paradise here,” he was saying.
“I do, I do,” she assured him with what seemed unnecessary vehemence51. “But I don’t know what’s come over me lately. I feel it imperative52 to be up and away. The spring fret53, I suppose; the Red Gods and their medicine. And if only Dick didn’t insist on working his head off and getting tied down with projects! Do you know, in all the years of our marriage, the only really serious rival I have ever had has been this ranch. He’s pretty faithful, and the ranch is his first love. He had it all planned and started before he ever met me or knew I existed.”
“Oh, but it’s the ‘Gypsy Trail,’” she protested. “It will only make my mood worse.” And she hummed:
“’Follow the Romany patteran
West to the sinking sun,
Till the junk sails lift through the homeless drift,
And the East and the West are one.’
“What is the Romany patteran?” she broke off to ask. “I’ve always thought of it as patter, or patois55, the Gypsy patois, and somehow it strikes me as absurd to follow a language over the world—a sort of philological56 excursion.”
“In a way the patteran is speech,” he answered. “But it always says one thing: ‘This way I have passed.’ Two sprigs, crossed in certain ways and left upon the trail, compose the patteran. But they must always be of different trees or shrubs57. Thus, on the ranch here, a patteran could be made of manzanita and madrono, of oak and spruce, of buckeye and alder58, of redwood and laurel, of huckleberry and lilac. It is a sign of Gypsy comrade to Gypsy comrade, of Gypsy lover to Gypsy lover.” And he hummed:
“’Back to the road again, again,
Out of a clear sea track;
Follow the cross of the Gypsy trail,
Over the world and back.’”
She nodded comprehension, looked for a moment with troubled eyes down the long room to the card-players, caught herself in her momentary59 absentness, and said quickly:
“Heaven knows there’s a lot of Gypsy in some of us. I have more than full share. In spite of his bucolic60 proclivities61, Dick is a born Gypsy. And from what he has told of you, you are hopelessly one.”
“After all, the white man is the real Gypsy, the king Gypsy,” Graham propounded62. “He has wandered wider, wilder, and with less equipment, than any Gypsy. The Gypsy has followed in his trails, but never made trail for him.—Come; let us try it.”
And as they sang the reckless words to their merry, careless lilt, he looked down at her and wondered—wondered at her—at himself. This was no place for him by this woman’s side, under her husband’s roof-tree. Yet here he was, and he should have gone days before. After the years he was just getting acquainted with himself. This was enchantment63, madness. He should tear himself away at once. He had known enchantments64 and madnesses before, and had torn himself away. Had he softened65 with the years? he questioned himself. Or was this a profounder madness than he had experienced? This meant the violation66 of dear things—things so dear, so jealously cherished and guarded in his secret life, that never yet had they suffered violation.
And still he did not tear himself away. He stood there beside her, looking down on her brown crown of hair glinting gold and bronze and bewitchingly curling into tendrils above her ears, singing a song that was fire to him—that must be fire to her, she being what she was and feeling what she had already, in flashes, half-unwittingly, hinted to him.
She is a witch, and her voice is not the least of her witchery, he thought, as her voice, so richly a woman’s voice, so essentially67 her voice in contradistinction to all women’s voices in the world, sang and throbbed68 in his ear. And he knew, beyond shade of doubt, that she felt some touch of this madness that afflicted69 him; that she sensed, as he sensed, that the man and the woman were met.
They thrilled together as they sang, and the thought and the sure knowledge of it added fuel to his own madness till his voice warmed unconsciously to the daring of the last lines, as, voices and thrills blending, they sang:
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid
As it was in the days of old—
The heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
Light of my tents be fleet,
Morning waits at the end of the world,
And the world is all at our feet.’”
He looked for her to look up as the last notes died away, but she remained quiet a moment, her eyes bent72 on the keys. And then the face that was turned to his was the face of the Little Lady of the Big House, the mouth smiling mischievously73, the eyes filled with roguery, as she said:
“Let us go and devil Dick—he’s losing. I’ve never seen him lose his temper at cards, but he gets ridiculously blue after a long siege of losing.
“And he does love gambling,” she continued, as she led the way to the tables. “It’s one of his modes of relaxing. It does him good. About once or twice a year, if it’s a good poker74 game, he’ll sit in all night to it and play to the blue sky if they take off the limit.”
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1
monopolized
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| v.垄断( monopolize的过去式和过去分词 )；独占；专卖；专营 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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ardency
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| n.热心，热烈 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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frictionless
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| adj.没有摩擦力的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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nascent
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| adj.初生的，发生中的 | |
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languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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creeks
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| n.小湾( creek的名词复数 )；小港；小河；小溪 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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hitching
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| 搭乘； （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的现在分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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gauged
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| adj.校准的；标准的；量规的；量计的v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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conjecturing
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| v. & n. 推测，臆测 | |
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28
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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35
befuddled
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| adj.迷糊的，糊涂的v.使烂醉( befuddle的过去式和过去分词 )；使迷惑不解 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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39
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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40
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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43
yarned
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| vi.讲故事（yarn的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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44
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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45
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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46
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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48
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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49
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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50
honeymooned
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| 度蜜月（honeymoon的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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52
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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53
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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54
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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55
patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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56
philological
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| adj.语言学的，文献学的 | |
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57
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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alder
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| n.赤杨树 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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bucolic
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| adj.乡村的；牧羊的 | |
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proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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62
propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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64
enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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65
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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66
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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67
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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68
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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69
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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71
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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72
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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73
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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74
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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