ONE toward the end of August a group of girls sat in a room at Miss Hatchard's in a of flags, turkey-red, and white paper muslin, and scrolls.
North Dormer was preparing for its Old Home Week. That of was still in its early stages, and, being few, and the to set an example contagious, the had a of and under Miss Hatchard's roof. The to the had come from those who had left North Dormer than from those who had been to there, and there was some in the village to the proper of enthusiasm. But Miss Hatchard's drawing-room was the centre of and from Hepburn, Nettleton, Springfield and more cities; and a visitor he was across the hall, and to a of the group of girls in their preparations.
“All the old names... all the old names....” Miss Hatchard would be heard, across the on her crutches. “Targatt... Sollas... Fry: this is Miss Orma Fry the on the for the organ-loft. Don't move, girls... and this is Miss Ally Hawes, our needle-woman... and Miss Charity Royall making our of evergreen.... I like the idea of its all being homemade, don't you? We haven't had to call in any talent: my Lucius Harney, the architect—you know he's up here preparing a book on Colonial houses—he's taken the whole thing in hand so cleverly; but you must come and see his sketch for the stage we're going to put up in the Town Hall.”
One of the results of the Old Home Week had, in fact, been the of Lucius Harney in the village street. He had been spoken of as being not off, but for some past no one had him at North Dormer, and there was a report of his having left Creston River, where he was said to have been staying, and gone away from the for good. Soon after Miss Hatchard's return, however, he came to his old in her house, and to take a leading part in the of the festivities. He himself into the idea with good-humour, and was so of sketches, and so in devices, that he gave an to the movement, and the whole village with his enthusiasm.
“Lucius has such a for the past that he has us all to a of our privileges,” Miss Hatchard would say, on the last word, which was a one. And leading her visitor to the drawing-room she would repeat, for the hundredth time, that she he it very of little North Dormer to start up and have a Home Week of its own, when so many places hadn't of it yet; but that, after all, Associations more than the size of the population, didn't they? And of North Dormer was so full of Associations... historic, (here a for Honorius) and ecclesiastical... he about the old service from England in 1769, she supposed? And it was so important, in a age, to set the example of to the old ideals, the family and the homestead, and so on. This her half-way across the hall, the girls to return to their activities.
The day on which Charity Royall was for the was the last the celebration. When Miss Hatchard called upon the North Dormer to in the Charity had at aloof; but it had been clear to her that her non-appearance might conjecture, and, reluctantly, she had joined the other workers. The girls, at and embarrassed, and puzzled as to the exact nature of the commemoration, had soon in the of their task, and by the notice they received. They would not for the world have missed their afternoons at Miss Hatchard's, and, while they cut out and and and pasted, their up such an to the sewing-machine that Charity's itself under their chatter.
In she was still almost of the about her. Since her return to the red house, on the of the day when Harney had overtaken her on her way to the Mountain, she had at North Dormer as if she were in the void. She had come there Harney, after appearing to agree to the of her doing so, had ended by her that any other would be madness. She had nothing to from Mr. Royall. Of this she had herself sure, though she had failed to add, in his exoneration, that he had twice offered to make her his wife. Her of him it impossible, at the moment, for her to say anything that might him in Harney's eyes.
Harney, however, once satisfied of her security, had of for her to return. The first, and the most unanswerable, was that she had else to go. But the one on which he the was that would be to avowal. If—as was almost inevitable—rumours of the at Nettleton should North Dormer, how else would her be interpreted? Her had publicly taken away her character, and she from his house. Seekers after fail to an conclusion. But if she came at once, and was leading her life, the was to its true proportions, as the of a old man at being in company. People would say that Mr. Royall had his to himself, and the would into its place in the of his debaucheries.
Charity saw the of the argument; but if she it was not so much of that as it was Harney's wish. Since that in the house she no for doing or not doing anything the that Harney or did not wish it. All her were in a of his will. It was not that she in him any of character—there were moments already when she she was the stronger—but that all the of life had a cloudy about the of their passion. Whenever she stopped about that for a moment she as she sometimes did after on the and up too long at the sky; her were so full of light that about her was a blur.
Each time that Miss Hatchard, in the of her into the work-room, an to her cousin, the architect, the was the same on Charity. The she was to her and she sat in a of trance. It was so that Miss Hatchard should talk of Harney in that familiar way, as if she had any on him, or anything about him. She, Charity Royall, was the only being on earth who him, him from the of his to the of his hair, the shifting lights in his eyes, and the of his voice, and the he liked and disliked, and there was to know about him, as and yet as a child the of the room it up in every morning. It was this fact, which nobody about her guessed, or would have understood, that her life something and inviolable, as if nothing had any power to or her as long as her was safe.
The room in which the girls sat was the one which had been Harney's bedroom. He had been sent upstairs, to make room for the Home Week workers; but the had not been moved, and as Charity sat there she had her the she had looked in on from the midnight garden. The table at which Harney had sat was the one about which the girls were gathered; and her own seat was near the on which she had him lying. Sometimes, when the others were not looking, she over as if to up something, and her for a moment against the pillow.
Toward the girls disbanded. Their work was done, and the next at the and were to be up, and the put in place in the Town Hall. The guests were to drive over from Hepburn in time for the under a in Miss Hatchard's field; and after that the were to begin. Miss Hatchard, with and excitement, thanked her assistants, and in the porch, on her and a as she them away the street.
Charity had off among the first; but at the gate she Ally Hawes calling after her, and turned.
“Will you come over now and try on your dress?” Ally asked, looking at her with admiration. “I want to be sure the don't up the same as they did yesterday.”
Charity at her with eyes. “Oh, it's lovely,” she said, and away without to Ally's protest. She wanted her dress to be as as the other girls'—wanted it, in fact, to the rest, since she was to take part in the “exercises”—but she had no time just then to her mind on such matters....
She up the to the library, of which she had the key about her neck. From the passage at the she a bicycle, and it to the of the street. She looked about to see if any of the girls were approaching; but they had away together toward the Town Hall, and she into the and toward the Creston road. There was an almost to Creston, and with her against the she through the still air like one of the she had often on wings. Twenty minutes from the time when she had left Miss Hatchard's door she was up the wood-road on which Harney had overtaken her on the day of her flight; and a minutes she had jumped from her at the gate of the house.
In the gold-powdered it looked more than like some and by many seasons; but at the back, Charity advanced, her after her, there were of habitation. A door of in the doorway, and pushing it open she entered a room in fashion. In the window was a table, also of boards, with an a big of wild asters, two chairs near by, and in one was a with a Mexican over it.
The room was empty, and her against the house Charity up the and sat on a under an old apple-tree. The air was perfectly still, and from where she sat she would be able to the of a bicycle-bell a long way the road....
She was always when she got to the little house Harney. She liked to have time to take in every detail of its sweetness—the of the apple-trees on the grass, the old their the road, the in the light—before his it all out. Everything to the hours in that place was as as the of a dream. The only was the of her new self, the out to the light of all her tendrils. She had all her life among people to have for of use; and more wonderful, at first, than Harney's were the that were a part of them. She had always of love as something and furtive, and he it as and open as the air.
On the of the day when she had him the way to the house he had packed up and left Creston River for Boston; but at the station he had jumped on the train with a hand-bag and up into the hills. For two August he had in the house, eggs and milk from the farm in the valley, where no one him, and doing his cooking over a spirit-lamp. He got up every day with the sun, took a in a he of, and long hours in the hemlock-woods above the house, or along the of the Eagle Ridge, above the that away east and west the hills. And in the Charity came to him.
With part of what was left of her savings she had a for a month, and every day after dinner, as soon as her started to his office, she to the library, got out her bicycle, and the Creston road. She that Mr. Royall, like else in North Dormer, was perfectly aware of her acquisition: possibly he, as well as the of the village, what use she of it. She did not care: she him to be so powerless that if he had questioned her she would have told him the truth. But they had spoken to each other since the night on the at Nettleton. He had returned to North Dormer only on the third day after that encounter, just as Charity and Verena were to supper. He had up his chair, taken his from the side-board drawer, it out of its ring, and seated himself as as if he had come in from his session at Carrick Fry's; and the long of the it almost natural that Charity should not so much as her when he entered. She had let him that her was not by the table while he was still eating, and going up without a word to herself into her room. After that he the of talking and to Verena Charity was in the room; but otherwise there was no in their relations.
She did not think of these while she sat waiting for Harney, but they in her mind as a against which her hours with him out like fires. Nothing else mattered, neither the good the bad, or what might have so she him. He had her up and her away into a new world, from which, at hours, the of her came to perform acts, but all so and that she sometimes that the people she about among see her....
Behind the Mountain the sun had gone in gold. From a up the a of cow-bells sounded; a of over the farm in the valley, on the pure air and was gone. For a minutes, in the clear light that is all shadow, and were with an precision; then the them out, and the little house and under its apple-branches.
Charity's contracted. The of night after a day of often gave her a of menace: it was like looking out over the world as it would be when love had gone from it. She if some day she would in that same place and watch in for her lover....
His bicycle-bell the lane, and in a minute she was at the gate and his were laughing in hers. They walked through the long grass, and pushed open the door the house. The room at dark and they had to their way in hand in hand. Through the window-frame the sky looked light by contrast, and above the black of in the one white star like a moth.
“There was such a to do at the last minute,” Harney was explaining, “and I had to drive to Creston to meet someone who has come to with my for the show.”
He had his arms about her, and his were in her and on her lips. Under his touch in her to the light and up like flowers in sunshine. She her into his, and they sat by on the couch. She his for being late: in his a thousand her, but as soon as he appeared she to wonder where he had come from, what had him, who had him from her. It as if the places he had been in, and the people he had been with, must to when he left them, just as her own life was in his absence.
He continued, now, to talk to her and gaily, his lateness, at the on his time, and good-humouredly Miss Hatchard's agitation. “She off Miles to ask Mr. Royall to speak at the Town Hall tomorrow: I didn't know till it was done.” Charity was silent, and he added: “After all, it's just as well. No one else have done it.”
Charity no answer: She did not what part her played in the morrow's ceremonies. Like all the other her world he had non-existent to her. She had put off him.
“Tomorrow I shall only see you from off,” Harney continued. “But in the there'll be the in the Town Hall. Do you want me to promise not to with any other girl?”
Any other girl? Were there any others? She had that peril, so did he and she in their world. Her gave a jerk.
“Yes, promise.”
He laughed and took her in his arms. “You goose—not if they're hideous?”
He pushed the from her forehead, her back, as his way was, and over so that his black her and the of the sky, in which the white star floated...
Side by they along the dark wood-road to the village. A late moon was rising, full and fiery, the from to a blackness, and making the upper sky so light that the looked as as their own in water. At the of the wood, a mile from North Dormer, Harney jumped from his bicycle, took Charity in his arms for a last kiss, and then waited while she on alone.
They were later than usual, and of taking the to the library she it against the of the wood-shed and entered the of the red house. Verena sat there alone; when Charity came in she looked at her with mild and then took a plate and a of milk from the and set them on the table. Charity her thanks, and down, upon her piece of and the glass. Her with her quick through the night, and her were by the of the lamp. She like a night-bird and caged.
“He ain't come since supper,” Verena said. “He's to the Hall.”
Charity took no notice. Her was still through the forest. She her plate and tumbler, and then her way up the dark stairs. When she opened her door a wonder her. Before going out she had closed her against the heat, but they had open, and a of moonlight, the room, rested on her and a dress of China out on it in whiteness. Charity had more than she on the dress, which was to those of all the other girls; she had wanted to let North Dormer see that she was of Harney's admiration. Above the dress, on the pillow, was the white which the who took part in the were to wear under a of asters; and the a pair of white shoes that Ally had produced from an old in which she treasures.
Charity at all the whiteness. It a that had come to her in the night after her meeting with Harney. She no longer had such visions... had them... but it was of Ally to have all those white on her bed, as Hattie Targatt's wedding dress from Springfield had been spread out for the to see when she married Tom Fry....
Charity took up the shoes and looked at them curiously. By day, no doubt, they would appear a little worn, but in the moonlight they of ivory. She sat on the to try them on, and they her perfectly, though when she up she a little on the high heels. She looked at her feet, which the of the had and narrowed. She had such shoes before, in the shop-windows at Nettleton... never, except... yes, once, she had noticed a pair of the same shape on Annabel Balch.
A of over her. Ally sometimes for Miss Balch when that being on North Dormer, and no she up presents of cast-off clothing: the in the all came from the people she for; there be no that the white were Annabel Balch's....
As she there, at her feet, she the click-click-click of a bicycle-bell under her window. It was Harney's as he passed on his way home. She to the window on her high heels, open the and out. He to her and by, his black dancing ahead of him the empty road; and she there him till he under the Hatchard spruces.
