# The Blue Window/Chapter 12

THE Blue Window framed tonight a gold-powdered sky. Hildegarde, ascending the stairway after the talk with Crispin which had followed her dramatic announcement of departure, knelt on the window-seat and looked out. Here was sanctuary—but it was some time before the serene beauty of the night stilled the tumult within her.
She held a far-flung argument with the quiet star which burned bright against the darkness.
"Mother, I am going back."
Then, as if in answer to some protest from the quiet star: "You went, Mother. And if I stayed, I should be sharing things that are dishonest."
Again, after a long pause: "Oh, of course I love him. Who wouldn't? But I can't stay."
Crispin had gone to his room to write a letter. She had talked over her plans with him. He had begged her to marry him. But she had been firm.
"I won't promise anything. I can live with Aunt Olivia and Aunt Catherine. It won't be so bad, with you coming on for week-ends."
It would be heaven, he told her, to see her so often, to know that she was close at hand. Yet he hated to have her at the farm with its hardships. If she would ​only marry him, his father would see them through until he finished college.
"I mustn't think of it. Not yet, Crispin. I don't even know that I—love you—"
While she would not promise, she had been glad of his sympathy and strength, and had found herself leaning on them.
So it had been settled. In the morning she would tell her father that she was going. No more than that. It would not be easy to tell him, but it must be done.
She was startled to hear Carew's voice on the stairs. "All alone in the dark, Hildegarde?"
He came up and stood beside her. "Your mother always waited for me on this landing when I came up to dress for dinner. It is because of her that there are never any lights. She said it spoiled the view of the sky. After she left, the window seemed blank."
She wondered if he expected her to sympathize. His hand was on her shoulder, but she drew away a little.
"If you had never let her go, I should have looked out of this window when I was a child. And I should have met you when you came to dress for dinner."
His voice had a note of surprise. "You say that as if you blamed me."
"It is something to think of, isn't it?" There was a touch of hardness in her tone.
He turned and looked at her, trying to pierce the shadows. "Why talk of that now? We've had it all out. Do you suppose I don't think of it? Of what I've missed. If you could know how often I've longed for a child to go up and down these stairs!"
She had a wild feeling that she was going to be sorry ​for him, and she wouldn't. She wouldn't. If she was sorry she would weaken. And she had made up her mind.
If she left him, it would be his own fault. He didn't deserve better. He had had her mother, and he had had Corinne. He couldn't have his cake and eat it, too.
So all she said was: "Isn't it late? Sampson was to have supper at seven."
"Nobody is down." He hesitated. "Is anything the matter, Hildegarde?"
She was honest. "Something I want to talk over in the morning, Daddy."
"I never talk things over in the morning. Is it about young Lohengrin? I fancy I haven't been as polite as I might be. But I can't help it. He's too young and too good-looking to make me comfortable. I feel my age and my infirmities when he's around, Hildegarde."
She found herself wanting to pat him on the cheek and say, "You're not old, Daddy." But she wouldn't. That was the worst of it; disapproving of him, she still loved him.
She was glad, therefore, to hear people coming down the stairs—gay ladies in their ball gowns, the men at their ease, distinguished. Would she ever again see their like if she went back to the farm?
The thought recurred to her at supper. Winslow asked her, "When is young Harlowe going?"
"Tomorrow. He had expected to stay longer, but things are calling him back."
There was a secret excitement in the thought that the things which called him back had to do with her ​own departure. He would prepare the way for her, talk with her aunts. And it was best that he should not be at Round Hill when she broke the news to her father. They could not, of course, travel to gether.
Winslow said, "You mustn't let yourself fall in love with him."
"Why not?"
"There's too much ahead of you here. Paris in the spring! Scotland in summer! The Nile, perhaps, next winter!"
Paris! Scotland! The Nile! And set against all that, the farm. She had a sense of panic. Everything in the lovely room seemed to mock her—the silver birds trailing their shining tails on the satin-smooth cloth, the glow of the tall candles, the red of the Christmas roses in the Sheffield bowl, the glimmer of pearls on the white necks of the women.
Aunt Olivia and Aunt Catherine wore gingham gowns, and there was an oil lamp in the center of the table! All the food was put on at once! And they were such silent women! There would be nobody to talk to, now that her mother was gone.
At the end of the meal Sally rose to propose a toast to Crispin.
"He goes tomorrow. Can't somebody do it in verse? 'When Crispin goes'—it rhymes with 'rose,' and 'watch and ward' with 'Hildegarde.'"
Sally's hair was a blaze of gold. Her slender figure in flame chiffon was like the calyx of a bright flower. Winslow, leaning back, watched her with narrowed eyes. He had a decision to make. He was indeed an ​ice-cold Paris with an apple to award. As things looked at the moment, Sally would win.
Crispin was on his feet. "I'll write my own valedictory," he announced, "if you'll let me rhyme 'Sally' with 'ally'." He paused, then gave the four lines:
They shouted at that. Hildegarde was blushing, her father frowning. Meriweather, self-controlled, tapped the table with the tips of his nails. He did not like the trend things were taking. As if Hildegarde belonged to Harlowe. He wished Sally had let the thing alone.
After dinner he wandered away from the rest of them, coming finally to the first landing and the seat under the Blue Window. There in the half-dark he smoked one cigarette after another. He was restless, moody. His life seemed spanned at the moment by futility. If Hildegarde loved Harlowe, the thing was over. . . .
Sally's voice: "I saw your cigarette. May I have one?"
"They aren't good for you—and I hate to see a woman smoke."
"Archaic!" She curled herself up on the other end of the window-seat. "Well, I won't if you don't like it. Anything to please you."
He did not answer.
"What's happened?" she demanded.
"Nothing."
​"Then cheer up. We all have our troubles. I have mine. One of them is Neale Winslow. He's trying to make love to me, Merry."
Meriweather lifted his head. "Winslow?"
"Yes. And I wish you'd see the way he goes about it—as if I were Red Ridinghood and he wanted to eat me up."
"He can't eat you if you don't want to be eaten."
"Oh, yes, he can. Some day, when I am walking alone in the wood, he'll come along, and he'll say, 'Little Red Ridinghood, why should you be walking through the wood alone, when you can ride in a coach-and-four, and have two men on the box and two behind, and have plumes in your bonnet, and pearls as big as roc's eggs in your ears?' And I'll listen, and let him go along with me, and then—he'll eat me up."
Meriweather gave a short laugh. "If you let him do it, I hope you won't expect any sympathy from me."
"I don't expect—anything—from you. But why shouldn't I take the plumes and pearls and the coach-and-four if he asks me?"
"Let's drop the fairy tales," he said with irritation. "If you marry Winslow, you'll simply be having him for his money."
"That's not what I should call an original remark, Merry."
"Oh, if you are going to look at it that way!"
"What other way can I? Mother wants me to do it. She says she has seen it coming on for a long time. And she doesn't believe in romantic love as a basis for marriage. She says the things to go for when you marry are the things that will make life easy."
​"She's wrong." Meriweather was tense. "If I could have the woman I want, I'd tramp the roads with her."
A pain stabbed Sally's heart. She knew the woman he wanted, and the woman was not herself. Yet how gladly she would have tramped with him—muddy roads, dusty roads, in any weather!
"I wish I were back again in the diplomatic service," he was saying. "I've half a notion to get back."
"But you mustn't go away. We can't spare you."
"I'm not so important as that. If I dropped out, the world would go on just the same."
"Not my world, Merry."
She said it lightly, and he took it lightly. He could not know, of course, how he was hurting her—shallow little Sally, who had no depths.
And now Winslow was coming up the stairs. "You two are selfish," he said. "May I help you look at the stars?"
He sat down and talked with them. He had no idea of leaving the field to Merry. He had definitely made up his mind to marry Sally. And always when he made up his mind he got what he wanted. That was his way.
Years ago there had been another wife, a plain little thing, incurably domestic. She had not kept step with her husband's growing prosperity and had died just in time to escape acute unhappiness. What Winslow needed now was some one to crown his possessions. He had felt that he must not hurry in his choice—that the golden apple he held in his hand was a treasure not to be lightly bestowed.
He had considered, in turn, three women—Mrs. Hulburt, Sally, Hildegarde. Early in the race Mrs. ​Hulburt had been eliminated. The assets of her social experience and mature charms were offset by the ease with which she could be won. He could, he knew, pick her like ripe fruit from the tree. And he preferred some effect of resistance. He knew instinctively that Sally would offer it, and Hildegarde.
And he wanted, too, youth. His own years would soon be heavy upon him. He must have gaiety about him, and laughter. It was, perhaps, because of this need of laughter that the balance had dipped in Sally's favor. She would dance through life to a rollicking measure. He liked to think of her dancing while he piped the tune.
Hildegarde, finer than Sally, might prove to be too fine. She was burdened with that uncomfortable thing called conscience. Her mother had had it. Winslow remembered her mother. A beautiful creature. He had once tried to make love to her. Her scorn had withered him.
And so it was Sally—Sally who at this moment, curled up on the window-seat, was like an enchanting child.
She liked Meriweather, of course. Anybody could see that. But Merry could be disposed of. There was that diplomatic post he talked of now and then. A little influence would do the trick, and Merry would be on the other side of the world.
Winslow smiled in the dark at the ease with which it could be done. Then, as the chimes of the hall clock came up to them: "I am taking you and your mother over to Stabler's, Sally. She said she would be ready at ten."
"Who else will be in your car?"
​"Hildegarde and Harlowe and Anne Carew."
"And Merry?"
"Sorry. But there'll be a full house without him."
Sally rose with some reluctance and ran back up the stairway to say to Merry, "I told you he would eat me up."
"Don't let him, Sally. Promise you won't. You're too fine for such a future." He laid his hand on her arm.
Thrilled by his touch, Sally wanted to turn and fling herself into his arms—to cry out, "Save me." But she couldn't, of course. Life wasn't like that.
"I'm not fine at all," she told him, "and I am as mercenary as they make 'em."
For just one fleeting moment she let her cheek rest against his coat. Then she ran down to the waiting Wolf.
After a few moments Merry also went down, and rode in the car with Carew and a lot of chattering house guests, talked with them, and laughed as if his mood matched his name, while all the time his mind was on Hildegarde riding with Harlowe in Winslow's car.
And so midnight came, and the early morning, and the stars grew pale before Hildegarde and Crispin stood for a moment under the Blue Window to say good-by. In the hall below was a brilliant, noisy group. Looking down upon them was like viewing from a balcony a scene in a play.
"Shall I ever see anything like this, Crispin?"
"Are you sorry you are going back?"
"I hate to leave it all . . . there's a part of me ​that loves it . . . that wants it . . . at any price. But there's another part that can't stay."
It was, he knew, the mother in her that gave her that sense of pride and independence. Hildegarde had told him she was leaving because she could not be a burden to her father. She had found out, she said, that he was spending more than he could afford. But not a word had she divulged of Carew's capitulation to Winslow's cupidity.
"Whether you are here or there, I shall always love you, Hildegarde. You know that?"
"Yes."
"And I can make you happy."
She gave him a flashing smile. "Cock-o'-the-walk," she whispered.
He held her hand in a tight grip. "Well? Why not? Wherever you go—wherever you are—you are mine to the end of the world!"
It was perhaps the bravery of his words, which helped Hildegarde the next day when she faced her father in the library.
"Why are you leaving me, Hildegarde?"
"Because I shouldn't have come, Daddy."
"Why shouldn't you?"
She flushed. "Daughters are expensive."
"Have I made you feel that way?"
"No. You've been wonderful. But I can't stay."
"You are not going to give me any explanation?"
"I can't."
He crossed the hearth-rug and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Look at me."
Her eyes, so like his eyes, gave him a straight glance.
​"You don't love me?" he asked.
"You know I do."
"Then why?"
"I can't tell you."
His hand dropped to his side. "You won't, you mean. And you leave me to my own conclusion, that you are going back because of Harlowe."
Her head went up. "I'm not."
"You're in love with him? You want to be near him?"
"I'm not in love with him. But I'd like to be." She flung it at him gallantly. "He's worth loving."
One on each side of the fireplace, their likeness to each other was amazing—upheld heads, the touch of haughtiness.
"Oh," Louis said at last impatiently, "we can't part like this. Do you think I'll let you go?"
"I must."
"You said you had written to your aunts. What reason did you give them?"
"I didn't give any. I simply said I was coming back."
"You'll hate the farm, Hildegarde—after this."
"Daddy . . . I'm sorry."
His voice had a high note of irritation. "If you were sorry, you'd stay. Have I been so—impossible?"
"It isn't that."
He began to walk the floor. "I've never loved anything that I haven't lost it."
Silence. What could she say?
After a while he went on. "Of course, the inevitable ​thing will happen. If you go back to the farm you'll marry Crispin Harlowe."
He ceased speaking, but the echo of his words seemed to persist, "You'll marry him, marry him, marry him. . . ." It swung like a peal of bells. "You'll marry him, marry him, marry him."
And now Carew brought out with violence, "A crude countryman!"
"He's splendid."
"You'll be buried. As my daughter, there would be opportunities to see the world, to broaden your life. And you love luxury, Hildegarde. You're like me in that. Your mother could do without it. But you can't."
Argument upon argument. Blaze meeting blaze. At last Carew pushed back his chair and stood up. "All I ask is that you'll think it over. Talk about it with Anne. She's sensible. I'm afraid I'm not patient. The thing is too theatrical."
He flung himself from the room, and Hildegarde, numb with distress, sat where he had left her. Now that the thing was done, it seemed to her dreadful that she had done it.
The two dogs came in presently, dropped down beside her, waiting patiently. It was the hour for her morning ride, and she had put on her riding clothes, but inertia gripped her. She had not expected to find her father up so early. He was rarely out of his room before noon. But coming upon him in the library, she blurted out the whole thing, shaking a little from nervousness, but none the less determined to get it over.
​And now it was over, and she was going away. She was going back to her little room, she was going back to her somber aunts—she was going back to Crispin.
For her father had, perhaps, been right in that. If Crispin had not been within reach of the farm, would she have gone? Was it, after all, entirely her sense of integrity which was taking her back?
She stood up. The dogs, eager, followed her through the door, led the way toward the stables. But she was not going to the stables. She turned down the hill and made her way to the pool.
There had been a day or two of warmth, and the bronze turtle was free from ice or snow. He rested placidly on the surface of the water, his head raised a little as if to catch the sound of Hildegarde's step.
She stopped at the edge of the pool. All about her the dry rushes rustled. Her mother's garden would never bloom for her. She was going away. All this, the house on the hill, the gay company within, would be as if they had never been. She would go back to her aunts and Crispin, and if some day she married Crispin, they would have a little house. . . . Were people happy in little houses? Was her father right? Was she like himself in needing luxury? Not strong enough to do without it?
Her mother had been strong enough. Her mother—up there somewhere in the infinite blue. Hildegarde lifted her face to the sky. "I want to be happy," was the cry of her heart to that unseen presence.
And was happiness here? Had her mother found it on the farm? Or had she acquired only a sort of sublime serenity which had served her until the end?
​Meriweather, riding along the road, saw Hildegarde standing with uplifted face. What a little thing she was under the wide heavens! And how his heart leaped at the sight of her!
He got down from his horse and joined her. "Hello, pretty thing."
"Hello." She was not smiling. Wistful.
"What's the matter?" he demanded.
"Life's a puzzle."
"My dear child, don't talk philosophy on a morning like this. You're missing Harlowe, and I won't have it. Did you ever see such air? Like a thousand cocktails. Let me get your horse, Hildegarde. And we'll have lunch at the inn."
She brightened. Anything to run away from her thoughts. "I'll wait here for you, Merry."
He was off with the dogs after him. Back again, two horses, two dogs, streaming down the hill. A sapphire sky. Clouds racing. Could she leave it?
Merry was in a gay mood. "Am I glad Harlowe's gone? I could shout to the skies."
In spite of her depression she laughed. "Silly."
"I'm not. A man like that hasn't any right upon the earth. He ought to be up in the clouds with the other gods. When you fall in love, Hildegarde, try something human."
"Crispin is human."
"He's too good to be true."
Their horses were off like the wind. Thoughts of the dark library and her conversation with her father receded; thoughts of the farm receded; thoughts of ​Crispin! The real things were the blue Bay, the red dogs, the bright sky, the touch of warmth in the sun!
When at last they arrived at the inn, light had come back to her eyes. "I am as hungry as a bear, Merry."
Old Christopher, welcoming them on the threshold, was as ruddy and round as a host should be. At this time of the year he did the cooking and served the guests himself. A helper in the kitchen and a housekeeper to look after the beds and linen formed his retinue. He knew Meriweather well, and Hildegarde. And he had known Hildegarde's mother. He had known the tragedy which had followed her marriage to Louis Carew. Carew had come clandestinely to the inn with Corinne, the woman who was to be his second wife. At such times Christopher had envied the methods of medieval justice which would have permitted poison in the food of such a pair. He had had to see Elizabeth robbed of her radiance. He hoped that Carew would not dim the radiance of Elizabeth's daughter. A man like that was a menace to the happiness of women. He was, indeed, a menace to the happiness of anybody. He took everything and gave nothing.
"Steamed oysters," Christopher advised. "I've got some Hampton Bays fresh this morning from the boats."
While they waited, Meriweather and Hildegarde sat in chairs drawn up to the great fire. The dogs, who had come in with them, flopped on the floor at their feet.
Above the fireplace was a wide shelf, and on the ​shelf lay Christopher's big cat, Columbus. He was black as the ace of spades and as plump as a feather pillow. His head hung over the edge of the shelf, and his eyes were green slits as he surveyed the dogs. His faint mew was a challenge to them and showed his pink tongue. Except for a wave of the tail and a cock of the ear, the dogs paid no attention to him. They had barked at him as puppies, and he had scratched their noses for them. Their silence under his scrutiny was therefore discreet.
"He's a beauty," Hildegarde said, and stood up to rub the old cat's head.
He settled himself against the warmth of her shoulder, his paws hanging down, his sable blackness showing up the whiteness of her skin.
"The dogs are jealous," Meriweather said, "and so am I."
The dogs were, indeed, on their feet, stiff as ramrods, their muzzles upturned.
A light flickered in Meriweather's golden eyes. "They feel about Columbus as I do about Harlowe."
They laughed together. The whole thing was light-hearted. Hildegarde had a sudden sense of relief from tension. Oh, things couldn't be so bad if she could feel like this!
Christopher, coming in, set in the center of the table some white-starred flowers in a blue bowl. And presently he brought the oysters in their deep shells on blue platters—and outside was the blue of the Bay.
Hildegarde ate with an appetite. It was delightful to be here with Merry in this wide, bright room and to have him talk to her.
​He was telling her something of his life. "My uncle brought me up. I was to have his money. So I played around a lot and then finally got into the diplomatic service. There was a year in Siam. You'd love it there, Hildegarde. The white days and the white nights. And the strangeness of it all. There was a sacred elephant who sounded his trumpet when his keeper left him, an infernal racket that waked everybody, and we'd all go hunting for the keeper and bring him back before we could get any sleep. And there was a little prince, only a baby, who wanted his mother, yet was forced to play the king. And there were the temple bells and the gay bazaars."
"Why did you leave?"
"The war came. And after that, the deluge! You see, my uncle didn't want me to fight. Oh, he was conscientious enough—a pacifist. But when I told him I was going, he said if I did, I could shift for myself. But I went—and I haven't seen him since. Not long ago he wrote me a letter, making overtures. But I won't go back and eat out of his hand. Not after the things he said to me. And so I came here with your father."
A little tale of heroism. And how simply put! She was aware of a feeling of warmth about her heart for Merry. Of admiration.
"It was fine of you," she said heartily.
"Oh, I didn't tell you to show myself off. Only I had to explain that I wouldn't be playing jackal to Louis if things hadn't been just as they are. I wanted you to understand."
His hands lay quietly on the table; his golden, attentive eyes had a deeper glow.
​"I do understand, Merry . . . ."
"Hildegarde—if you would go with me—hear the temple bells—!" . . .
Old Christopher, coming back and forth from the kitchen, weighed Meriweather's chances with Hildegarde against those of young Harlowe. Crispin had come often to the inn, with Elizabeth's daughter during his sojourn at Round Hill. And Christopher had liked him. But then he liked Meriweather. Would Carew let either of them have her? And would he think of her happiness or of his own?
He watched them as they went away, riding down the beach road. Well, anyhow, good luck go with her! He felt a little lonely as he turned back to his empty hearth and his green-eyed cat.
The beach road was wonderful—the waves tumbling noisily over the sands, the gulls shrieking, the horses at a gallop, the dogs in a mad race—!
What a world, what a world! Hildegarde could not withstand its gay challenge. She was young, and her blood was warm. Why worry about tomorrow? Crispin loved her, and Merry. She flung care to the four winds. She would live life for the moment, with the gulls, and the wild breeze, and the tumbling waves!