But Roland was not in search of flirtations: he moved by one group into another until he reached a corner of the veranda in which Mrs. Metuchen and Miss Dunellen sat. Merely by the expression on the faces of those whom he greeted it was patent to the others that the trio were on familiar terms; and when presently he accompanied Miss Dunellen off the veranda, aided her to mount a horse that waited there, mounted another himself, and cantered off with the girl, the unattached females declared that the twain must be engaged. In that they were in error. As yet Roland had not said a word to the charge he might not have said to the matron. Both of these ladies had been surprised when he reached Aiken, and both had been pleased as well. In that surprise, in that pleasure, Roland had actively collaborated; and taking on himself to answer before it was framed the question which his advent naturally prompted, he stated that in journeying from Savannah to Asheville he had stopped over at Aiken as at a halfway house, and that, too, without an idea of encountering anyone whom he knew. Thereafter for several days he managed to make himself indispensable to the matron, companionable to her charge; but now, on this particular morning, as he rattled down the red road, the courage which had deserted him returned; and a few hours later, when before a mirror in his bedroom he stood arranging his cravat, he caught a reflection of Hyperion, son-in-law of Croesus.
V
In a fortnight that reflection was framed with a promise. Justine had put her hand in his. The threads by which he succeeded in binding her to him are needless to describe. He understood that prime secret in the art of coercing affection which consists in making one’s self desired. He was never inopportune. Moreover, he saw that Justine, accustomed to the devotion of other men, accepted such devotion as a matter of course; in consequence he took another tack, and bullied her—a treatment which was new to her, and, being new, attractive. He found fault with her openly, criticised the manner in which she sat her horse, contradicted her whenever the opportunity came, and jeered—civilly, it is true, but the jeer was there and all the sharper because it was blunted—at any enthusiasm she chanced to express. And then, when she expected it least, he would be enthusiastic himself, and enthusiastic over nothing at all—some mythical deed canned in history, the beauty of a child, or the flush of the arbutus which they gathered on their rides. To others whom he encountered in her presence he showed himself so self-abnegatory, so readily pleased, sweet-tempered, and indulgent, so studious even of their susceptibilities and appreciative of what they liked and what they did not, that in comparing his manner to her and his manner to them the girl grew vexed, and one evening she told him so.
They happened to be sitting alone in a corner of the veranda. From within came the rhythm of a waltz; some dance was in progress, affectioned by the few; Mrs. Metuchen was discussing family trees with a party of Philadelphians; the air was sweet with the scent of pines and of jasmines; just above and beyond, a star was circumflexed by the moon.
“I am sorry if I have offended,” he made answer to her complaint. “Do you mind if I smoke?” Without waiting for her consent he drew out a cigarette and lighted it. “I have not intended to,” he added. “Tomorrow I will go.”
“But why? You like it here. You told me so today.”
With a fillip of forefinger and thumb Roland tossed the cigarette out into the road. “Because I admire you,” he answered curtly.
“I am glad of that.”
The reproof, if reproof there were, was not in her speech, but in her voice. She spoke as one does whose due is conceded only after an effort. And for a while both were mute.
“Come, children, it is time to go to bed.” Mrs. Metuchen in her fantastic fashion was hailing them from the door. Already the waltz had ceased, and as Mrs. Metuchen spoke, Justine rose from her seat.
“Good night, Don Quichotte,” the old lady added; and as the girl approached she continued in an audible undertone, “I call him Don Quichotte because he looks like the Chevalier Bayard.”
“Good night, Mrs. Metuchen, and the pleasantest of dreams.” But the matron, with a wave of her glove, had disappeared, and Justine returned.
“At least you will not go until the afternoon?”
“Since you wish it, I will not.”
She had stretched out her hand, but Roland, affecting not to notice it, raised his hat and turned away. Presently, and although, in spite of many a vice, he was little given to drink, he found himself at the bar superintending the blending of gin, of lemon-peel, and of soda; and as he swallowed it and put the goblet down he seemed so satisfied that the barkeeper, with the affectionate familiarity of his class, nodded and smiled.
“It takes a Remsen Cooler to do the trick, don’t it?” he said.
And Roland, assenting remotely, left the bar and sought his room.
The next morning, as through different groups he sought for matron and for maid, he had a crop under his arm and in his hand a paper.
“I have been settling my bill,” he announced.
“But are you going?” exclaimed Mrs. Metuchen.
“I can hardly take up a permanent residence here, can I?” he replied.
“Oh, Justine,” the old lady cried, and clutched the girl by the arm, “persuade him not to.” And fixing him with her glittering eyes, she added, “If you go, sir, you leave an Aiken void.”
The jest
