The Haunted Pajamas Part 49

A pause; and then: "And _how_ long have you known me, pray? Just a--"

"A thousand years!" I said promptly and earnestly. "A thousand years and all my life, don't you know! Never will know you any better."

"I wonder," she murmured, nodding slowly. And then for a moment she didn't say a word, just sat there looking me over curiously, her expression half shy, half quizzical, don't you know.

Then her smile flashed again--a radiant, dazzling brightness that brought her nearer, like the effect of the sunlight's sudden gleam there at times upon the blue line of the "West Sh.o.r.e" away across the broad, three-mile span of the old Tappan Zee.

"And now"--again her splendid young arms were clasped, wing-like, behind her head; and its golden glory hung like a picture against the dark vine leaves, bossed with the cl.u.s.tered purple flowers--"now," she repeated, settling comfortably, "you must just go on and tell me the rest--I can bear it! What did my"--her big blue eyes twinkled as she smiled--"my father say about me?"

I shifted uncomfortably. "Oh, I can't, you know!" I demurred. "I say, what's the use, dash it?" Poor old boy, somehow I just hated to round on him--he was so jolly hard hit already; Jack, don't you know! Besides--

"Please!" Jove, how she said it!

"Oh, dash it, I'm afraid it will hurt you," I protested uneasily; "and I don't think the judge really--"

"I just don't care _that_"--a snap from her little fingers and her arm went back--"for anything _he_ ever said about me that was _mean_! So, please go on--I must go dress for luncheon."

And so I just took a deep breath, a long running leap, and cleared the bar--told her all, you know!

Oddly, this time she didn't laugh--and I knew why: it was her father, and it had cut her to the heart. This was what I had feared. As I proceeded, narrating the interview in the library, she just grew rosier and rosier red, but sat looking at me wide-eyed and unflinching. The pulsation of her bosom quickened a little, but her dear face remained unchanged, save for her little trick of dragging her under-lip through her white teeth.

"And, by Jove, that's all!" I finished with relief as I mopped my face.

"But who cares, don't you know, or believes any bit of it? Anyhow, _we_ don't--for we know!"

"Are you _sure_?" She spoke gravely, yet in her eyes were the dancing star-motes of a laugh. "The extravagance, the gambling, and the--oh, all of it? I must tell you _I_ heard some sad things myself about Francis Billings while I was at Cambridge--"

I grunted scornfully. "_I_ know: from that two-faced cat, Miss Kirkland!

Say, how I wish, by Jove, that woman would pack up and go back to China--the _sponge_!" And I screwed my gla.s.s indignantly.

"Oh, now!" she remonstrated sweetly, "you mustn't say _that_! You might be sorry!" She smiled archly.

I grunted contemptuously.

Again she rested her little chin upon her hand, eying me thoughtfully, earnestly.

"And so you don't believe any of it?"

I chuckled at the idea. "Oh, I say now, Frances, you _know_ I don't!"

And I shoved a bit nearer, looking into her eyes. But just then I saw Wilkes come out and look around.

And _she_ must have glanced about quickly and have seen him, too, for as I shifted my eyes to her again she was blushing furiously and had moved a bit.

"I'm afraid," she said measuredly, her chin lifting a little, "you do believe--_part_ of it!" And in her eyes was a glint of fire.

And then as my face fell blankly, a slow little smile came creeping back to hers. Her eyes softened.

"Forgive me," she said gently; "I misunderstood!"

The darling! And, dash it, if they were going to have vines to a pavilion, why didn't they _have_ vines?

"Do you know," she said, "I don't believe you _do_ believe any of these awful things could be true about me,"--her voice quickened here--"and do you know I just think it's lovely of you! I _do_!" And her dear voice dropped like the softer notes of a what's-its-name. Her hands lay in her lap and she was studying me in the kindest, sweetest way! And I wanted to tell her how good she was and how much I loved her, don't you know, but just then, behind the pavilion, came the gardener. He was talking to one of his a.s.sistants about slugs--_dash_ slugs!

And then her face lighted again as though she would speak and I leaned eagerly toward her--waiting, expectant.

"When Arthur made his court at--" she began, and, by Jove, my jolly heart sank. If she would only drop Arthur and give me a chance to make _my_ court, dash it! "Camelot, you know," she went on, and I almost groaned. What did _I_ care that he came a lot? Perhaps, now, if I could divert her mind--

"Oh, I say, you know," I broke in interestedly, "what was it you were--er--humming--just now, don't you know."

"Vivian's song--don't you remember it?"

I tried to think, but I couldn't seem to place her, though I knew the whole line of 'em back to Lottie Gilson.

I finally had to shake my head.

She smiled. "Don't you know," she said:

"'I think you hardly know the tender rhyme Of "trust me not at all or all in all."'"

She was right! I didn't know the jolly thing, that was a fact, but somehow I liked the swing of it. She went on, and struck me with another remark. By Jove, she seemed to have forgotten about the jolly song and I was devilish glad, for _I_ had rather hear her _talk_, don't you know.

"'In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours--'"

"_If?_" I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed reproachfully, hitching nearer. But she only smiled, and continued her remark:

"'Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers; Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.'"

"Oh!" I uttered. For, by Jove, she had said it--the thing I had felt all the time and couldn't express; the something that had been with me all along in connection with herself. And here _she_ had the jolly idea pat upon her tongue! I just blinked at her admiringly--didn't dare speak, you know; afraid I'd break the thread of what's-its-name.

She went on telling me something about a lover's lute, and it was hard not to speak _then_, for I did so want to ask what a jolly lute was. And then some remark about specks in garnered fruit--here her line of thought had been changed, I knew, by some remark of the gardener outside: something about worms and the orchard. However, I just chirped up a nod and listened as attentively as though she had gone right on.

She was busy with her hair now, but with her mind still on the worm, murmured abstractedly:

"'That rotting inward slowly moulders all.'"

And just here, with a little clatter, her back comb struck the floor, bounding to the other side of the pavilion. As I scrambled to get it, her voice lifted through a choke of laughter:

"'It is not worth the keeping; let it go!'"

The idea!

I laughed as I caught the thing up and whirled, my hand outstretched to lay it in her own. She was on her feet, pulling down her belt, and paused to lift away a leaf that clung to her snowy skirt. And just here, the gardener's voice lifted startlingly across the park to some one distant and invisible:

"Better bring paris green, Jud; it's the only way we'll ever get rid of 'em," he bawled. "I see they're going after the leaves now, and they can live on them and air. Pizen'll fix 'em, though!"

The comb outstretched, I stood staring at Frances, doubled over and writhing. And then, with a long-drawn gasp that was half a screech, her lithesome figure straightened, her head went back, and from her throat there trilled the very joy of health and youth and happy days.

"Oh!" she gasped, her hand pressing to her side. And while I looked at her anxiously, she went on pantingly, her eyes bright with tears:

"'But shall it? Answer, darling, answer no, And trust me not at all or all in all.'"