He fumbled for adequate words for his thought was slipping from him. In the first place, he had never actually analyzed his emotions toward her, never satisfied himself as to the reason why she could at times make him tremble. It was certainly not because she was beautiful, although he realized as she stood there in front of him that she was very beautiful. No, it was not that. It might be ascribed to a certain magnetism that flowed about her and drew him insensibly toward her. Yet was not that a part of her beauty? Lost in conjecture he stood before her and observed her with tired eyes beneath a frowning brow. She had listened to him quietly, watching him closely all the time, and when he faltered and became silent, she placed her hand on his arm.
“You are reasoning,” she said. “You are trying to destroy me by reasoning, but you find that you cannot do it. I am in your mind and I shall stay there.”
“I shall root you out of my mind quickly enough,” he said brutally.
“Is it that little girl?” she said. “Do you think that I am afraid of that little girl?”
He shook his head impatiently.
“I will not discuss her with you,” he declared. “You have nothing to do with her … or me, either.”
“Goodbye,” she said then, and put both her arms about his neck. He felt the heat of her long body against him, and instinctively held her to him.
“Goodbye,” he muttered against her blue-black hair.
His arms tightened about her as he felt her body pulsing against his, and he shut his eyes tightly. Waves of sunlit heat seemed to roar about him. She was no more than a creature of flesh and blood, after all, a warm breathing woman frantic with primitive urges, and unsuccessfully disguising them in a web of pretentious phrases. The thought of her lonely life crept into his beguiled consciousness, and a feeling of tenderness, of pity, swept through his blood. If he could help her, he would. But there was no way to it. She must go on and fight her own battle against life, against the close prison of the valley, and against the madness of Jeffrey Westcott. He was not a part of that arduous struggle. He was but an onlooker, a nonparticipant, a traveler who would shortly go away. And yet … her body contained a kindling heat … the scent of her hair was about his face … he could hear the shuddering ecstasy of her breath.
Suddenly she drew away from him and stood in the center of the room, breathing rapidly. He could see her dilated nostrils and her archaic lips slightly parted. Her dark hair had fallen about her shoulders. Her hand was raised to her shoulder. For an instant she poised like a living statue, and then with a quick gesture, she tore the black dress from her shoulders, and the snow-white flesh rippled to gold in the lamplight.
“Daniel Dreeme,” she gasped in a husky tone. “Daniel … you … you. …”
He stood rooted to the spot, staring at her right shoulder, at the golden-white flesh that shone in the lamplight and at the blue figure, no larger than the palm of his hand, that disfigured the glossy skin. It seemed to leap to his eyes at the instant conclusion of her abandoned gesture. He could not take his gaze from it, for it seemed to burn luminously by itself, a tracing of blue fire that writhed before his strained eyes. It fluctuated, drew near, retired from him, grew larger, and then diminished in size. He wanted to cry out, “What, in the name of Christ, is that!” but he could not force a single word through his lips. She had sensed the direction of his eyes the instant she had torn the dress from her shoulder, and a horrified hopelessness had swept across her face. She could see that the brief bond which had held them together was instantaneously snapped, that the charm was shattered. He was thinking no longer of her, no longer stirred to tenderness by her, or to passion by the whiteness of her body. Slowly she drew together the torn fragments of her dress and covered herself. Without a single word she walked slowly toward the door. She stood there with her back to him for a full minute and waited, but he said nothing. He still stood by the table, his eyes on the spot from which she had walked. His mind was an amazed welter of thoughts through which constantly moved the cold dead hand of Wagner, and the frail ghostlike figure of Deborah. He could piece nothing together, make sense of nothing, find no rational explanation of anything. The lamp began to sputter, shooting its thin protesting flame upward in the chimney as the oil burned out of the wick. In a minute it would go out and leave them in darkness. Every time the flame shot upward the shadows lengthened in the room and every time it went down the corners filled with curling pools of blackness. Dreeme walked slowly toward the lamp. It needed oil. It should be put out. His mind strove to function automatically as he stretched his hand out toward the lamp. He heard Martha Westcott move in the doorway, and he turned toward her. She was disappearing into the hall, walking slowly. Suddenly his voice came back to him.
“The goat’s head,” he said. “Where did you get the goat’s head?”
He could hear her feet walking down the hall, and he stood listening as the front door softly opened and then closed again. Leaning over he blew the light out and stood in the darkness, frowning.
