There is a place called an Inn above a city in the mountains—it was built only a few years ago by a man with a Brobdingnagian imagination—a huge pile of bowlders, tunneled and dragged down from the mountain sides and put together as if the ages had soldered them into a great castle. The walls within are rough and covered with strange scripts, fragments of great lines from great poets, sentences from philosophers and saints. It is not a place for tourists, but for people weary with the strife of living, made obedient to peace and silence by exhaustion. I have seen this place. It is marvelous, and strangely effective morally. Bad people get a somnambulant look there, because they are sleepwalking in their virtues. They get a look of na?ve innocence; or, if the system of moral compensation in them is broken, they take a horrified look around and escape on the next train.
One morning, so early that the day was still a gray cavern between earth and sky with the wild March winds whirling in it, a slender woman descended from a taxicab at the gateway to the drive[238] which led down the mountain slope to this Inn. She wore a blue coat with a fur collar drawn close about her fair face, a small fur hat with an exceeding vivid rose tucked into the band of thicker fur around the crown and fitted so snugly that a mere line of her bright hair showed beneath. She had eyes the color of blue flowers, paler than violets, the kind that always look up at you meaningly from the cold ground in March—but you do not know what they mean—exactly as this woman’s eyes looked upward and abroad now beneath the narrow sweeping line of her swallow-winged brows.
She was not young; she was touched with the same sadness of those pale blue flowers above the winter earth. But she appeared young in this half light of the early dawn. Any man at the sight of her, swinging gracefully down the winding road between the naked trees, beneath the pearling skies of daybreak, might have conceived the idea of courting her. But he would have dismissed it instantly after a nearer reading look. He would have perceived that she was already “taken,” that she belonged either to a man or to his children. She was not in the possessive case.
She loitered along the way, as one familiar with[239] this place, looking for remembered things, ferns between the rocks, puffs of green moss above these rocks, flashes of wild azalea deeply bowered among the laurel bushes, tall stalks of shooting star blossoms white against the gray bluff, and a path leading from the roadway up the side of the bluff. I suppose there is not even one little high place on this earth which has not somewhere upon it a path that goes to the top. And frequently the idlest people in the world make them. It is due to the futile persistence of the altar instinct in them.
She had come down into the paved plaza in front of the Inn before the porter carrying her bags overtook her. She followed him through the door and paused at the breath-taking majesty of this huge room. Filled with guests, its dignity was diminished; but bare and solemn and silent in this early morning hour, it was tremendous. She cast a glance upward at the rough walls, scrolled over with those mighty texts taken from the Scriptures that men have made for themselves, but not one from Moses or the Prophets—the idea being, I suppose, not to open the bleeding wounds of conscience in many guests by reminders too authoritatively worded about their sins and trespasses.
[240]She caught sight of one at last from Marcus Aurelius as if she had been looking for it. The wisdom of it did not apply to her case, but it soothed her for that reason, because she remembered it as an exit she used to take from her unhappy thoughts during those first months of her unnatural widowhood. When you are bedridden within by a secret grief, these old negative philosophers are very good drug doctors for your complaints. This is why so many miserable women take to the narcotics of theosophy and other forms of recumbent mysticisms. They are mental opiates.
“Good morning, Mrs. Cutter! Glad to see you back here,” the night clerk said, smiling sleepy-eyed at her as she approached the desk. He swung the register around and offered her a pen.
“You received my wire?” she asked, when she had written her name.
“Yes, and fortunately we were able to reserve the same room for you,” he answered, evidently referring to a request which she had wired.
“Shall you want a car, as usual, Mrs. Cutter?” he called after her as she was about to enter the elevator.
“Not until this afternoon. How are the roads?”
[241]“Very good, at least your favorite one is,” he assured her.
She had come to this Inn immediately after Cutter left her the previous year. She had recovered her health of mind and strength of body in this quiet place; she had profited by the patterns of peace and imagination it afforded; and she had spent much time visiting fine old houses, studying the manners, ways and clothes of the people who came and went. She acquired for the first time in her life some feeling and sense of elegance, lines and colors. And it was here that she met the architect who drew the plans for remodeling her house at Shannon.
She resumed her old diversions now. She mingled little with the other guests, but spent her time driving about the country. She was still oppressed by the rude awakening she had, that last day in Shannon, to the fact that she loved and longed for her husband. She was disturbed and humiliated by this revelation, as one is by the awakening of some weakness we believe we have outgrown.
The issue constantly in her mind was whether, after all, it would not be wiser to give up her house in Shannon and live this idle, pleasant existence. There were no associations here to remind[242] her of the past. And in spite of her huge expense in the effort to destroy these memories, it was after she came back to Shannon that the old pain and unhappiness had returned to overwhelm her. Then this issue was settled for her with a horrible, irrevocable decision, and she was flung violently back upon the one refuge, her house in Shannon, and the one plan she had for substituting love with affection, which she had been on the point of abandoning.
One evening she came down late for dinner, passed through the swinging doors and sat down at the table reserved for her, which was near these doors. The room was filled with week-end guests. She had an excellent view of this brilliant company. There were handsomely gowned women, rouged and sparkling with jewels; there were more men than were usually to be seen at leisure during this man-grasping war period; and quite a sprinkling of military officers, evidently on leave from Washington.
Helen had given her order and sat idly scanning the scene before her, listening to snatches of conversation from the nearer tables.
She was barely enough like these other women in her ivory-white, embroidered Canton crêpe not to attract attention. She was pale, as[243] they were painted. Her hair lay in a soft golden coil on her head, where their hair ruffled in a thousand glistening convolutions. Her lips were parted, showing the lapped edge of the two white teeth. The dark lashes of her eyes were more apparent, because of the blueness of these eyes and of the whiteness of her skin.
Once she caught the steady, dark gaze of a woman seated directly opposite her, but at a distant table. She lifted her own glance and hurried by this overhead route back to the bunch of violets in the vase on her own table. She could not have told why she did this, probably for the same reason one flinches and draws back from the sudden flash of a brilliant flame. She sat staring at the violets, wondering about this woman, not intelligently, with a sort of amazement which was not pleasant. Never before had she seen such a fury of commanding beauty. She thought she must be tall. She was very dark—olive skin, flushed like a velvet rose; black hair, daringly coiffured and heightened by a Spanish comb; a straight, imperious nose; a fine-lipped mouth, red and cruelly turned to mirth. But the fury of her beauty lay in the smoking black eyes. And the maroon velvet gown she wore seemed somehow to enhance the heat of terrible, searing[244] beauty, as if the body of this woman had been forged, slim and strong, in a furnace and still glowed dangerously and dully.
Helen wondered why she had not seen her when she entered the dining room, for now she could almost hear her crackle. Yet she did not look up again in that direction. There was a man at the table with this woman, she knew; but she had been so startled by the native malice of those dark eyes that she had only a blurred impression of his back.
Suddenly there was a sound in this place where the confused murmur of many voices made a thousand sounds. It was the rich, rollicking laugh of a man, one high note quickly suppressed.
Helen stiffened, her hand flew to her breast as if she had received a mortal wound. This trumpeting note of mirth was as much a part of her experience as her husband’s kisses had been. Her lips tightened, her eyes wide with horror flew this way and that, scanning every face. Then they fell again upon the dark woman whom she had forgotten in this sudden anguish. Instantly she felt the red lash of this woman’s smile, as if she had reached across the space between them to strike a blow. There was contempt and[245] recognition in the smoldering black eyes—no defiance, but triumph.
The man facing her at this table with his back to Helen caught it, flirted his head around to find the object of it—and looked straight into the eyes of his wife!
For one instant they held this silent interview with each other in that crowded room. Then the woman struck her hands together with a sharp, little s............