The portières between the dining room and the living room at Beachcrest are carefully drawn. The whole company is assembled, waiting. It is one o'clock, the vitriolic Dutch timepiece on the mantel having just snapped out the hungry truth.
The clock, with its quenchless petulance and spite, is lord of the mantel. And what an entourage of vessels! Close up against it huddles a bottle of peroxide. Then, although disposed in some semblance of neatness and order, one discovers a fish stringer, an old pipe, several empty cigar boxes, heaps of old letters, a book opened and turned down, a number of rumpled handkerchiefs, some camera films, a bottle of red ink. There are two odd candlesticks, without any candles, a metal dish containing a vast miscellany of pins, collar buttons, rubber bands, and who knows what? Lo, on the other side of the clock loiter a curious pebble, a laundry list, a box of candy, some loose change and a little paper money, a pocket flash which no longer works, matches in a broken crockery receiver, perfumes, sandpaper, a writing tablet and some yellowing envelopes. And one glimpses, emerging from chaos, the frayed handle of a whisk broom which has seen [Pg 160]immeasurably better days. Some woven grass baskets, too. Anything else? Yes, yonder is a box of tacks, and beside it a little pile of the Rev. Needham's socks, nicely darned. Also, strewn here and there, are various rail and steamship timetables, most of which bear the dates of seasons long gone by. An immortal miscellany! Oh, and one must not miss that curious creature squatting in a dim corner and peering ever alertly around with his little beady eyes: yes, a sad and much dilapidated Teddy Bear.
One o'clock!
There is a tendency on the part of every pair of eyes—even those of the Rev. Needham, or perhaps especially those—to direct from time to time a wholly unconscious glance of hope mingled with mild anxiety toward the tantalizing green portières, beyond which Eliza moves about with maddening deliberateness.
One o'clock, snapping like a dry forest twig under the tread of some wild creature. Then an angry tick-tock, tick-tock. On and on and on, forever.
Out in the kitchen Eliza was prodding the kettle of soup. She was dreamily thinking of the porter at the hotel in Beulah. Would he get over this evening? Oh, love is so wonderful! Eliza was quite gauche and unlettered; yet love, for her, was a thing which could rouse brilliant orgies of the imagination. Love, even for her, was something which transcended all the ineffable promised glories of Heaven itself. Yes, it was better than the streets of pearl and the[Pg 161] gates of amethyst—or was it the gates of pearl and the streets of gold?
When the soup was ready she served it, then thrust asunder the portières. "Lunch is served, ma'am," she announced, with a degree of majesty which would simply have terrorized the Beulah porter.
They responded promptly—not exactly crowding ahead of each other, but stepping along with irreproachable briskness. Appetites beside the sea are like munition factories in wartime.
There was a cheerful rattle of chairs and much scraping of feet under the table. Then a solemn silence, while the minister prayed. The Rev. Needham, of course, sat at the head of the table. Mrs. Needham sat opposite him at the foot. To the minister's right was Miss Whitcom, who found herself delightfully sandwiched in between a knight of the church and a knight of the grip. Needless to say, the latter was Mr. O'Donnell, looking his very nicest and smelling of soap like the Brushwood Boy. Next came Hilda, who flashed quite dazzling smiles across at her sister, smiles more subdued and shy at Mr. Barry. There was a flurry of conversation at first, while the paper napkins were being opened up and disposed where they would afford the most protection—not a great deal, it is to be feared, at best. And then—well, then there was almost no talk at all until after the soup. As they say in theatre programs: "The curtain will be lowered one minute to denote a lapse of time."
[Pg 162]
Miss Whitcom and Mr. O'Donnell had employed quite as little formality in their meeting as the latter had prophesied during the trip up to Beulah. She hadn't, as a matter of fact, referred to the wall paper in the throne room of the Queen's palace. Instead she had remarked: "You know, it's curious. I was just dropping you a note. Yes. I wanted, for one thing, to express my regret over the unlikelihood of our seeing each other this trip, since you see I'm going right back. Jolly you should have happened along like this—and a postage stamp saved into the bargain!" While he, swallowing his disappointment over the prospect of her immediate return to Tahulamaji, had replied in like spirit: "How fortunate—about the stamp, I mean. It has been a long while, hasn't it?"
And now they were sitting side by side at the table, rather monopolizing the conversation—having a beautiful time, yet never quite descending from that characteristic, mutually assumed tone of banter.
"I suppose you're still travelling, Mr. O'Donnell?"
"Still travelling, Miss Whitcom."
"Same firm?"
"Same firm."
It had been the same firm almost as far back as memory went. It always would be the same firm. There was little of change and perhaps nothing at all of adventure in this destiny. But there was a rather substantial balance in the bank, which, after all, is a kind of adven............