“Let’s rest a minute,” she said. And then: “I always think a pine grove is like a cathedral. I read somewhere that pines inspired Gothic architecture. Do you suppose it’s true?”
“There was the lotus and the Corinthian column,” Hugo answered.
They sat down. This was a new emotion—a paradoxical emotion for him. He had come to an inharmonious sanctuary and he could expect both tragedy and enchantment. There was Roseanne herself, a hidden beautiful thing in whom were prisoned many beauties. She was growing old in the frosty seclusion of her husband’s company. She was feeding on the toothless food of dreams when her hunger was still strong. That much anyone might see; the reason alone remained invisible. He was acutely conscious of an hour at hand, an imminent moment of vision.
“You’re a strange man,” she said finally.
That was to be the password. “Yes?”
“I’ve watched you every day from the kitchen window.” Her depression had gone now and she was talking with a vague excitement.
“Have you?”
“Do you mind if we pretend for a minute?”
“I’d like it.”
“Then let’s pretend this is a magic carpet and we’ve flown away from the world and there’s nothing to do but play. Play,” she repeated musingly. “I’ll be Roseanne and you’ll be Hugo. You see, I found out your name from the letters. I found out a lot about you. Not facts like born, occupation, father’s first name; just—things.”
He dared a little then. “What sort of things, Roseanne?”
She laughed. “I knew you could do it! That’s one of them. I found out you had a soul. Souls show even in barnyards. You looked at the peonies one day and you played with the puppies the next. In one way—Hugo—you’re a failure as a farm hand.”
“Failure?”
“A flop. You never make a grammatical mistake.” She saw his surprise and laughed again. “And your manners—and, then, you understood French. See—the carpet is taking us higher and farther away. Isn’t it fun! You’re the hired man and I’m the farmer’s wife and all of a sudden—we’re—”
“A prince and princess?”
“That’s exactly right. I won’t pretend I’m not curious—morbidly curious. But I won’t ask questions, either, because that isn’t what the carpet is for.”
“What is it for, Roseanne?”
“To get away from the world, silly. And now—there’s a look about you. When I was a little girl, my father was a great man, and many great men used to come to our house. I know what the frown of power is and the attitude of greatness. You have them—much more than any pompous old magnate I ever laid eyes on. The way you touch things and handle them, the way you square your shoulders. Sometimes I think you’re not real at all and just an imaginary knight come to storm my castle. And sometimes I think you’re a very famous man whose afternoon walk just has been extended for a few months. The first thought frightens me, and the second makes me wonder why I haven’t seen your picture in the Sunday rotogravures.”
Hugo’s shoulders shook. “Poor Princess Roseanne. And what do I think about you, then—”
She held up her hand. “Don’t tell me, Hugo. I should be sad. After all, my life—”
“May be what it does not appear to be.”
She took a brittle pine twig and dug in the mould of the needles until it broke. “Ralph—was different once. He was a chemist. Then—the war came. And he was there and a shell—”
“Ah,” Hugo said. “And you loved him before?”
“I had promised him before. But it changed him so. And it’s hard.”
“The carpet,” he answered gently. “The carpet—”
“I almost dropped off, and then I’d have been hurt, wouldn’t I?”
“A favor for a favor. I’m not a great man, but I hope to be one. I have something that I think is a talent. Let it go at that. The letters come from my father and mother—in Colorado.”
“I’ve never seen Colorado.”
“It’s big—”
“Like the nursery of the Titans, I think,” she said softly, and Hugo shuddered. The instinct had been too true.
Her eyes were suddenly stormy. “I feel old enough to mother you, Hugo. And yet, since you came, I’ve been a little bit in love with you. It doesn’t matter, does it?”
“I think—I know—”
“Sit closer to me then, Hugo.”
The sun had passed the zenith before they spoke connectedly again. “Time for the magic carpet to come to earth,” she said gaily.
“Is it?”
“Don’t be masculine any longer—and don’t be rudely possessive. Of course it is. Aren’t you hungry?”
“I was hungry—” he began moodily.
“All off at earth. Come on. Button me. Am I a sight?”
“I disregard the bait.”
“You’re being funny. Come. No—wait. We’ve forgotten the orchids. I wonder if I really came for orchids. Should you be terribly offended if I said I thought I did?”
“Extravagantly offended.”
Cane returned late in the day. The cows had been sold—“I even made five hundred clear and above the feeding and labor on the one with the off leg. She’ll breed good cattle.” The barns were as clean as a park, and Roseanne was singing as she prepared dinner.
Nothing happened until a hot night in August. The leaves were still and limp, the moon had set. Hugo lay awake and he heard her coming quietly up the stairs.
“Ralph had a headache and he took two triple bromides. Of course, I could always have said that I heard one of the cows in distress and came to wake you. But he’s jealous, poor dear. And then—but who could resist a couple of simultaneous alibis?”
“Nobody,” he whispered. She sat down on his bed. He put his arm around her and felt that she was in a nightdress. “I wish I could see you now.”
“Then take this flashlight—just for an instant. Wait.” He heard the rustle of her clothing. “Now.”
She heard him draw in his breath. Then the light went out.
With
