# The Scientist and the Moth

From The Century Magazine, Jan 1905
THE SCIENTIST AND THE MOTH
BY JENNETTE LEE
THE Scientist attended to the little crabs on his plate. If the truth must be told, he had not noted that they were crabs, or that they were canned. He was wondering which was Henrietta; and if she played the andante.
It was a Schubert andante, and he knew the violin score by heart. He had often played it in Germany; but he had not expected to find it here among the redwoods of California. He had been standing by the piano humming it absently to himself, before dinner, when they came in—gliding, floating, walking. The Scientist could not have told how they came. His sight was never very good at the best, and he had taken off his glasses and rubbed them on his handkerchief as they approached. He always did this at the advent of a new specimen. They had held out cordial hands to him—one, firm and hearty, like a boy's, he remembered now; the other, raised in a slow curve and seeking his gracefully. He could not recall which was which. This made him sorry.
For, as the dinner progressed, he perceived that Mrs. Tryon's two daughters were very different. The one that sat opposite her mother at the end of the table must be the elder, he decided, though age could hardly be associated with either of them. They were like wood-nymphs that had drifted in for a casual meal, catching their drapery as they came, and wearing it with modesty but not of necessity. These were unseemly and riotous thoughts for the brain of a scientist. How they came there I will not pretend to say. I can only mention that, although during thirty years' pursuit of bugs and moths he had lived almost constantly in the woods, the Scientist had never before encountered a wood-nymph or dreamed of one. To meet two at a first encounter was naturally somewhat embarrassing.
He took a safe moment to look again at the elder of the two. She was big and gentle, and the hair on her low forehead was of the softest brown. It occurred to the Scientist that one might like to touch it. His second thought was that it was the color of the moth he had come to find. He returned circumspectly to his crabs.
When he looked up again, the younger one, the one across the table from him, was regarding him frankly. She had clear, dark eyes, and her nose tilted a little, which kept her from being beautiful. But the eyes were very friendly—like a St. Bernard's, the Scientist decided, only nicer. He suddenly took courage and leaned forward.
"Do you play the andante?" he asked, motioning toward the open door.
She looked at him with wide eyes.
"I hate music," she said.
"Henrietta!" murmured her mother. "Not hate—you don't mean that you hate it."
The girl shook her head perversely.
"I do. I hate it."
Her mother looked at her helplessly for a minute. Then her face relaxed.
"She does n't hate it," she said confidingly; "she has n't, perhaps, Ethelberta's touch—"
Both the girls laughed outright, and even the Scientist smiled.
"Then it is yours?" he said, turning to the other.
"The andante? Yes. I was trying to play it before dinner, but it needs the violin."
"Yes. It needs the violin."
The mother leaned forward eagerly. "And do you play?"
"A little." The Scientist blushed at the admission.
The hostess clapped her hands in a plump, joyous way.
"Now, is n't that perfect! There's Hal's violin in the camp loft. Run, Henrietta, and get it."
They rose from ths table and grouped about the fire in the other room. And when the violin had been brought in, and a string mended, and it had been tuned, Ethelberta and the Scientist played the andante, the Scientist leaning over the full, rounded shoulder and following the score with swift, short-sighted glance. The light from the candles fell on the room, bringing out shadows and faint color.
Across the room, Henrietta, on a low bench, with her knees drawn up and her eyes half shut, played with the long, silky ears of a huge dog that lounged against her. He pushed affectionately nearer to her, his breath coming in soft pants. Henrietta patted his head and sat up, looking vaguely about. The music was full of witchery. It played among the half-lighted shadows. She rose, stretched herself, and wandered across the room, standing for a moment by the door and looking into the darkness. The great dog followed her, leaping upon her.
"Down, Buff!" she said softly.

### II

When Mrs. Tryon opened her eyes she looked about with a little expression of dismay.
"Where is Henrietta?" she demanded.
The music had ceased, and the players came across to the fire. Ethelberta glanced at the low seat.
"She's run away," she said, smiling. "I thought she could stand the Schubert. But you never can tell." The tall clock chimed nine o'clock softly, and she looked up. "Nine o'clock. I must run over a minute to see Mary. I promised her."
She went into the hall for a wrap, and her mother's eyes followed her, comfortably vexed.
"It's a friend that's been ill," she explained. "Their camp is next ours. It's only a step. And how stupid in Henrietta to go off! Do you smoke?"
The Scientist looked up gratefully. "I—er—sometimes."
She pulled open a drawer in the library table, and took out a brown box, proffering it to him.
His eye lighted as he saw the mark. He took one with thin, careful fingers and stood rolling it absently, a look of contentment in his face.
She watched him with an amused smile. "You may smoke it," she said.
He looked about him. "Here?"
"Here or outdoors, as you please. The nights are very beautiful with us, so dry and clear. Henrietta is constantly roaming about in them." There was half-apology and half-pride in the tone.
"Is it quite safe?" ventured the Scientist.
"Safe? Oh, perfectly! She always has Buff, and this is America, you know."
"Yes."
He stood waiting an instant, rolling the cigar thoughtfully in his fingers. Then he strolled out through the open door into the starlit night. When the cigar was lighted he slipped the ends of his thumbs into his pockets and wandered about, smoking tranquilly and looking up to the stars. He could see them quite plainly. They were far enough away from his short-sighted eyes to seem near. The night was very still, and soft sounds pattered through it—the breath of pine boughs, the chirp of insects, and a distant murmur of water down below somewhere. Then another sound broke upon it—a soft panting, and hurrying thuds, a sound of running breath, and quick, laughing footsteps.
A girl's figure flitted through the shrubbery at the right, the dog's huge shadow loping behind. It disappeared in the direction of the house, and stillness settled upon the night. The Scientist strolled and smoked and looked at the stars.
When at last he threw away the end of the cigar and turned toward the house, lights glimmered in two of the upper windows.

### III

As the Scientist went up to his room he noted a rim of light from beneath two doors gleaming into the darkened hall, and he walked softly that he might not disturb any one or call attention to himself.
He need not have feared disturbing the occupants of the rooms, had he known, or calling attention to himself; for he was already very present to them. Behind the ray of light on the left, Henrietta was arranging her treasures for the night and thinking of the Schubert andante.
It was a low, rambling room, with gables jutting into it and dormer-windows jutting out from it, and it was devoted to Henrietta's enthusiasms. Branches of pine thrust into the angles gave out a breath of woods, and trailing vines ran along the windows and walls. On the table at the left were three miniature rabbits and a yellow china cat. The cat was very large and had a head that waggled when you touched it. Under the table was a dark-green alligator, stuffed, and on each side the mirror a Barye lion and a tiger confronted each other. The pictures on the walls were all of animals or of children or peasants. Groups of heavy-fetlocked horses and animals of the jungle hung side by side, and in stray corners tiny models of bears or dogs hid themselves.
The girl was putting away her pets for the night, removing them from their niches and putting them into a wool-lined basket that stood by her bed. She had always done this since she was a little girl, as she had always said her prayers. It had never occurred to her to omit either ceremony. She was putting the bear in place now, rubbing his shaggy fur and patting him gently. But she was not thinking of the bear. She was thinking of the andante and of the Scientist. The music had made her restless. It must have been the violin. Hal never played it that way. It was horrid, stirring people up—and spoiling the stars. She gave the bear a severe slap and reached out for the alligator, fingering his green scales with peremptory touches and coiling him swiftly inside the soft wool. Her forehead wore a little scowl. Why had he come, with his glasses and violin and his cigars? Who asked him to come? She gathered up a handful of rabbits and thrust them sharply into place. Did he think anybody wanted him? Ethelberta never played like that before. She rested her chin on her hand and gazed gloomily into the wool-lined basket. The yellow cat looked out at her with large, one-sided, dispassionate gaze till she clapped the cover on the basket and stood up, yawning. It was that stupid music. How it tagged her about! She raised her head with a swift breath and listened. It had begun again—down in the garden. She moved toward the window, a look of threatening in her eyes. They filled with a quick laugh.
"Cats!" she said softly. She blew out the light and kneeled down to say her prayers.
Under the door across the hall, Ethelberta's light still glowed, and, within, the room was a blaze of light. On each side the mirror and on the dressing-table were candles, and across the room a piano-lamp gave out a rosy haze. In the midst of the light stood Ethelberta, her dressing-gown falling in straight folds about her and her long hair sweeping to her knees. She was brushing it slowly, drawing the brush through its length, lifting it and letting it fall in a cloud about her face and neck. She smiled out of the soft haze to herself in the glass, a sleepy smile.
The room was full of sleepy touches. The bed-covers were turned back, and the white pillows were laid invitingly low. The draperies of the room were white, and the toilet-table gleamed with white and silver. Powder-boxes and combs, massage-brushes, tiny scissors, mirrors, and toilet-water invited one to bathe and sleep and dress. There were no books in the room, and no pictures. Mirrors reflected the light and reflected Ethelberta standing there with the sleepy smile in her eyes, brushing her long hair. He played divinely well—a little too fast in the tempo, but wonderfully and with such distinction. She had not known it went like that. She hummed the notes under her breath, lifting a wave of the hair and letting it drift slowly down and watching the light shimmer through it. Then she pushed it back from her forehead, and, raising her arms above her head, gave a sleepy yawn. She stretched in full enjoyment of it, her sleeves falling back to the shoulder and her arms rising from them, big and white and curved. After a moment they dropped slowly, and she went about, putting out the lights one by one, and smiling at her face out of the shadows. He was a distinguished gentleman, and how pretty Henrietta looked! She was a dear child.
Up in his room the Scientist was unpacking his bag, moving softly and putting things carefully away. He took out a set of flat boxes and arranged them symmetrically on the unfinished beam that ran along the side of the room and formed a shelf. When they were arranged he stood back and surveyed them proudly. They represented many thousand miles of travel, cold days and hot, and hungry ones, and they were very beautiful. He hugged himself and got down on his knees, crawling from box to box and peering ecstatically at the array of wings and spots and stripes. When at last he rose from his knees he brushed them absently, as if from habit, and took from his bag a large square of cardboard. He laid it on the table and gazed at it fondly. It was a water-color drawing of a large brown moth with small whitish dots along the edge of each wing. It was much less brilliant than many of the specimens shining at him from the wall, but he gazed at it with reverence. There was but one specimen in the world. It was in the laboratory of Herr Plautsnitz in Berlin, where he had made the drawing two months before. The professor had not allowed him to touch so much as a hair of the soft, downy wings. The specimen was locked away behind glass doors; and the Scientist had copied it, pressing his nose close to the glass and cherishing thoughts of envy. Then there had come to him his inspiration—half hearsay, half intuition—that California was the proper habitat of the Scarberus; and he had packed his bag and was off.
He looked around the room with a happy sigh. It was an ideal place to work, high in the top of the house, and here he would stay till the prize had been captured. There could be no doubt of the genuineness of his welcome. And there was music and the young woman who played the andante. He peered again at the drawing. Ah, that was it! He had forgotten. The wings were like her eyes—radiant wings and brown, with deep lights in them. He hung above them enraptured. A sound caught his ear—a soft pad, pad of flying feet and quick breathing. He sprang to the window and looked down. At the edge of the cleared space a figure stood poised, one hand on the collar of the huge dog, the other raised as if listening. The moon had come over the tops of the redwoods and glimmered about her. As the Scientist appeared at the window she looked up with a swift wave of the lifted hand and disappeared in the forest. The Scientist bent forward eagerly. Had she called to him? Was it only the flicker of moonlight, the waving of a branch, or did the brown hand beckon to him? He had a sudden impulse to follow her, to taste the night again; and he turned quickly from the window. But half-way to the door he paused. His eye had lighted on the drawing by the lamp, and he fluttered toward it.
Two hours later, when Henrietta, fresh from her roaming, crept quietly into the house, the Scientist was still bent above the drawing, his eyes rapt. The click of a latch roused him, and he looked up vaguely. With a smile of contentment he reached over and turned out the lamp, and went to bed.

### IV

"It is a perfect day," announced Mrs. Tryon at the breakfast-table; "we will take our lunch and picnic on the Bluff."
"Good!" said Henrietta, boyishly.
Ethelberta looked inquiringly at the Scientist. "Perhaps Mr. Flaxman won't want to—"
"Anybody 'd want to," rejoined Henrietta.
"If they could spare the time," said Ethelberta.
The three women were looking at him, and the Scientist put down his cup quickly.
"I—I'm only too happy," he said.
"There!" said Henrietta. "I told you so."
"Henrietta!" reproved her mother.
"Of course he has time," replied Henrietta—"all the time there is."
"But Mr. Flaxman has come here to work, Henrietta," said her mother.
"Oh!" Henrietta gave a little gasp. Then she laughed. "I did n't know anybody could work here," she declared. "What do you do?" She was leaning forward, looking at him with clear eyes.
He blushed, but the friendly eyes had no mercy. "Perhaps you would n't call it work," he said at last; "I only hunt for specimens."
"For specimens?"
"Butterflies, Henrietta," said her mother, in a superior tone, "and moths."
"Moths! Oh!" The eyes had opened very wide. "And stick pins into them?"
There was an embarrassed silence about the table.
"Do you?" she demanded.
"Sometimes," he admitted feebly.
Henrietta's face grew stern. "I'd never do it," she exclaimed, "not if I were a grown man."
"You don't suppose they feel it, Henrietta?" Ethelberta's voice was slow and gentle.
"Of course they feel it," snapped Henrietta. "Would n't you?"
"Oh, but that's different, dear."
"It's just the same," declared Henrietta. There was a little catch in her voice. "Excuse me, please, mother."
She slipped from the table, and they smiled at each other indulgently.
"She's such a child," said Mrs. Tryon.
"And she thinks you spear them alive," explained Ethelberta.
"Oh, I don't do that," said the Scientist; "at least, not when I have chloroform," he added conscientiously.
"Of course not," said Mrs. Tryon. "Now about the luncheon, Ethelberta."
The Scientist strolled away. He crossed the cleared space and stood by the edge of the wood, looking in. It was just here that she stood last night with the dog at her side. It must have been here that she disappeared. A tiny path led into the branches, and he leaned forward, peering absently into it. Suddenly, with a flash, he raised himself. His eye had dilated, and his hand trembled. He lifted it swiftly to his head. He had no hat,—no net! Great heavens! And there, not two feet from his hand, was the Scarberus. It rested lightly among the green leaves of a bush. He lifted his hand cautiously. He must risk it. He drew out his handkerchief and turned noiselessly, his very breath suspended in hope and fear. Slowly he moved his hand, curving it away from sight, and rising on tiptoe as it hovered above the brown wings. He drew a quick breath—now!
There was a sudden rush from behind, a quick stroke on the bush, a harsh "Shoo!" and the brown wings rose, noiseless and free.
He stood gaping at them as they sailed away toward the blue, higher and higher. Then his eye dropped to where she stood beside him.
Her face quivered a little with shame and exultation.
"What did you do that for?" he asked.
"It's small business."
"It's hard work."
"How would you like a knife stuck into you?"
"But I always chloroform them."
"You do!" There was mingled astonishment and regret in the tone.
"Of course."
"Oh, I'm sorry!"
"It's no matter"—stiffly.
"Yes, it is."
"Well, perhaps a little."
"But you can get plenty more."
"Never!"—with deep conviction.
"I've seen hundreds."
"You!" He started forward. "Then you can—"
She retreated, looking at him with distrustful, negative eyes.
"Never!"
"I did n't say it," he breathed apologetically.
She retreated farther.
"Never!" she repeated, putting out her hand as if to ward off the evil thing. Her eyes grew dark. "Never, never, never!" She had disappeared among the shrubs.

### V

This was the last that the Scientist saw of her for twenty-four hours, or, more accurately, the last words that he heard her speak. She went on the picnic with the rest; but she had a way of flitting ahead with Buff, or falling behind with the pack-mule, and reappearing, by some short cut, far ahead, that made her only an elusive attendant on the feast. And when the actual eating was done and the dishes packed away, she disappeared once more into the forest. Mrs. Tryon, under cover of verifying a mushroom, took a surreptitious nap; and the Scientist and Ethelberta, on the bank of a little stream that threaded the hill, read Browning and talked of music. There was a slow, dreamy return under the starlight, more then the careless, familiar good night, half touched with the comradeship of the day. It had been an unusual day for the Scientist, and he lay long on his pillow, awake, looking into the night and thinking of it and of brown-winged eyes; and when at last he fell into slumber, the soft pad, pad of hurrying feet broke upon it and half waked him, and lulled him again, till he caught the rhythm and was off upon it; and beside him coursed a swift figure, and beyond her thudded the great dog. And the eyes that turned to him, as they sped, and looked into his were clear and sweet.
When the Scientist woke in the morning he was aware of a sudden pang. He opened his eyes and looked blankly at the row of specimens ranged neatly along the wall. Then, in a flash, it came to him. He had seen the Scarberus. He had been close upon it. He had all but touched it. He rose and dressed, harsh thoughts in his heart. He had missed the Scarberus by an inch. He had wasted a day in Browning and nonsense. To-day he would work. If he went outside the house, no woman should bear him company.
Two hours later, as the Scientist was bending over his microscope, the door opened softly, and a small brown hand stole in. It held a square green box. He looked at it inquiringly.
"There are two," she said, "one to cut up and one for a specimen. And I never want to see them again!"
The door closed behind her.

### VI

Now was the time when the Scientist should have gone away. He had accomplished that for which he came. He had his Scarberus—two of them, carefully mounted. There was no reason why he should stay on; but he stayed.
Mrs. Tryon beamed upon him and mothered him and consulted him about her investments, with regard to which the Scientist gave her some remarkable advice. Ethelberta played to him, and read Browning and Meredith, and walked with him in the great woods. Of Henrietta he saw nothing. She had disappeared—gone into camp in the woods farther up, her mother explained. She often did this when the freak took her. Old John, the forester, had made her a camp not a stone's throw from his own, and she came and went as she pleased. Old John, who had had the care of the woods for twenty-five years, kept faithful guard over her. Henrietta had trotted at his heels as a child, and all the wood-lore she knew he had taught her. And then, too, she had Buff. Nothing could hurt her with Buff to protect her. Mrs. Tryon explained these unconventional details a little anxiously. The Scientist might think her remiss in letting Henrietta camp alone in the woods. He smiled, and wondered when she was coming back.
"We never know," replied his hostess. "She may return to-morrow, and she may be gone several days. Old John keeps me informed that she is safe, and looks after her provisions. But she does n't like to be fussed about. Now, Ethelberta is so different." She sighed a little and smiled anxiously at the Scientist; and the Scientist smiled back and rubbed his glasses, and stayed on.
Sometimes when he walked alone in the woods he would pause for a moment and listen, with bent head, to a sound that came to him on the wind—a sound of swift feet that died away with the wind in the pines. And once, in the evening, when he was playing in the half-lighted room, he stepped to the window, the violin still under his chin, and looked out into the night. But there was only flickering darkness and the branches of the forest beckoning to him.
So the days drifted by, filled with music and moth-lit eyes and poetry, and a sense of home such as the Scientist had never known. And each night as he went to bed he vowed to himself that the morrow should see an end of it. But when the morning came, a curious thing had happened to him, and the Scientist stayed on.
For in the hours of sleep a spell was wrought upon him, and out of the bounds of time and space he was swept into a new world. He never knew how it began or when the sense of reality overtook him. But suddenly he was there—in that other world. He rubbed his eyes and looked about him and waited, holding his breath. A branch quivered a little at the right, then another, or the wind stirred among them till they shook with laughter. Then they opened, and she stood there, smiling at him with frank eyes. "Down, Buff!" she said softly as she walked across the space to meet him. The Scientist sprang up and held out both hands. But she put her own behind her, and laughed up to him archly. He had known that she would laugh like that. He had always known it. Stupid! stupid! He was gazing down at her with all his soul in his eyes. She was very beautiful, laughing there—more beautiful than any moth. He suddenly felt for his glasses to rub them. But he had no glasses. Ah, it was truly another world, and he could see far into the clear eyes, deep—deep.
"Come," she said. She was holding out her hand,—the small brown hand,—and he covered it with his own, and they wandered through the forest, sometimes swiftly, along cleared spaces, as if wings bore them, and sometimes slowly, looking from side to side and looking long at each other. Once she stopped and leaned over a bush with hushed breath. "Look!" she said. In the curve of a branch a Scarberus rested, his wings opening and closing in softest rhythm. The Scientist raised a hand, but she caught it to her side, and drew him away. Her eyes laughed at him, but she shook her head slowly. "There are hundreds, but you must not touch them—not one of them. They come out only at night."
"At night?" He leaned forward eagerly. "Do you know? How do you know?"
She was drawing him away from the bush, still farther away.
"Oh, it is easy." She laughed and lifted her face. "Listen!"
The wind surged above them in the pines, and night-sounds broke upon it and touched it and swept away beneath it. Her eyes were alight and her lips trembled. He bent nearer to them—nearer, and put out his hands in darkness, and fell through space,—long depths of space,—and rested at last upon darkness—solid banks of it that stretched beneath him and reached away on each side. And when he woke there was only the wish in his heart. He would stay another day.
All this was very reprehensible from the point of view of science, and a trifle absurd, but very broadening. The pursuit of bugs and moths, while it may call one's attention to beauties of structure and rouse one's admiration for the marvels of anatomy, does not tend to a belief in spiritism or telepathy or second sight or elective affinities. And the Scientist, who was not stupid, but only very ignorant, grew rapidly wise. The halo of degrees about his head dwindled in his eyes to the smallest-sized type known to civilized man, and the joy in his heart sang so loud that he was half ashamed, and tried to pretend to himself that it was the altitude.
And then, one morning, she came back. She appeared at the breakfast-table with radiant eyes and clear, dark skin, looking just as she had looked when he parted from her, at sunrise, not two hours before. The Scientist held out his hand to her boldly; it did not occur to him to take off his glasses and rub them; and she smiled back at him frankly.
Mrs. Tryon and Ethelberta drew a sigh of relief. Henrietta was a trifle difficult at times, and it would have been too bad to break up the sense of good-fellowship that had come to pass among them.
After breakfast the Scientist was closeted with Mrs. Tryon in the library for half an hour, and when he came out she went straight to Henrietta's room. The girl stood by the wool-lined basket, taking out her pets and arranging them in place.
Her mother came in and closed the door carefully behind her.
"He's done it," she said, seating herself in a chair by the window, and beaming at Henrietta.
"Done what?" asked Henrietta. She lifted the yellow cat and placed it carefully on the table. The yellow head waggled comfortably from side to side.
Her mother nodded to her sagely. "Of course I expected it; but he's not just like other men, and I was n't sure he—cared."
Henrietta lifted her hand to her forehead, looking at her mother with clear, transparent eyes. "Has he told you?" she said wonderingly.
"Just this minute. And I 've given him my blessing. They are just suited to each other."
The girl's hand dropped slowly. "They—are—" She was staring into her mother's face.
Her mother laughed good-humoredly. "You have n't seen it; you 've been away so much. But they have a hundred things in common, books and their music, and they 're both so slow and restful—not like you and me." She rose and patted the girl's cheek, "I wanted you to know right off. I knew you'd be so glad. We must keep out of the way a little."
The door closed behind her words, and Henrietta looked about her vaguely. The yellow cat's head had ceased to waggle, and the glass eye stared at her roundly.
"Ugh!" said Henrietta.
She found her hat, and throwing it on, ran hastily down-stairs, stopping a moment at the library door.
"Oh, mother!"
"Yes, dear," came absently from the depths.
"I'm going up to camp again. I 'll be back to-morrow."
"Yes, dear. Take Buff."
"Of course." She stepped out into the sunlight and gave a low sound, something between a whistle and a call. The great dog bounded to her side.
"Where are you going, sister?" called Ethelberta, swaying in the hammock. Her white dress gleamed cool against the green.
"Just up to camp. I want to get something I left." She drifted past and disappeared in the wood.
The Scientist, up in his room, lifted his head and stepped quickly to the window. He seized his hat and sped down the stairway. As he passed the hammock it was Ethelberta's voice that stayed him:
"Whither away, Sir Knight?"
He paused a moment and turned back to her, his hat held in his thin fingers and his eyes fixed on the wood.
"Has she gone?" he asked.
"Henrietta? Yes; up to camp. She 'll be gone hours. Sit down."
He regarded the proffered seat gravely. "Could I find the camp?"
"You?" She had started up, and was looking at him with long, slow glance.
He returned it humbly. But the joy within him broke into smiling. If her own smile was a little slow in coming, he did not notice. When it came, she nodded assentingly.
"Yes—yes. How stupid in me!" She rose slowly and stepped toward the forest. "Come. I will put you on the path." A little farther in she paused. "There; you can't miss it now. Mother had it blazed from here. Good-by." She held out her hand in the graceful curve he knew. "Good-by, and good luck to you. Bring her back to luncheon."
"Yes; thank you a thousand times."
He stood with his hat in his hand, watching her as she moved gracefully away through the green wood. And his near-sighted gaze saw only the back of a charming woman and a delightful comrade who played his accompaniments divinely well.
All about the camp the wind stirred softly. Down below, to the right, the brook went blab, blab over the stones and spilled itself in ripples, and through the branches overhead filtered the sunshine, pine-scented and sweet. It fell on a figure lying, face down, in the moss, and flecked it lightly. The figure lay very still, the breath coming heavy and slow.
When she had reached the camp she had thrown herself down, blind and reckless, her breath choking her, and her hands clutching the moss on each side and tearing it apart. But now she lay quiet, her tense shoulders relaxed and her eyes filled with tears. What a fool she had been! What a fool! Why should she have dreamed it! He was a great man, distinguished, famous—and she, who could not play a note, or talk, or write, and she hated music. What a fool! Tears of shame overflowed, and she wiped them away, miserably, groping for her handkerchief beside her.
The Scientist, who had emerged from the trees, stopped short, peering uncertainly at the figure. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead. Then he replaced it and stood looking up at the sunlit branches. There were no sounds but the blab, blab of the little brook below and the girl's slow breath. The Scientist took a step forward and stopped. A twig had snapped beneath his foot.
She sat up hastily with a startled look, stowing the wet ball of handkerchief beneath a fold of her dress.
"Where is Ethelberta?" she said, with dignity.
He came forward slowly. "I left her by the hammock." He was looking wistfully at the damp face. "Perhaps I ought to go away."
She said nothing, but her lip quivered, and she looked away.
He took off his glasses and rubbed them with elaborate care. When he replaced them, he looked at her again; then he moved forward, and sat down beside her. She did not speak or stir, and they sat very quiet, the sunshine filtering about them. When he looked at her again she shivered a little.
"Go away, please," she said in a low voice.
For answer he moved a little nearer to her. His hand reached out and took the small brown one. He stroked it softly. She sat passive for a moment, her face averted. Then she gathered herself anew.
"Go away," she said.
He opened his lips to speak, but she stopped him with a gesture, and he stood up, looking about him.
"I came to tell you something," he said slowly, "but it can wait."
"I know what it is; mother told me." She was digging a stick into the moss, and the words came in jerks as she dug.
He dropped on his knees.
"And you don't care? " The near-sighted eyes came very close to her, pleadingly.
"Why should I care!" She tried to look stern; but her lip played her false, and she looked helplessly away, winking fast.
"I did n't know," he said humbly. "I have seen you so little. But I know you so well—oh, so well!" His hands were reaching out to her.—"And those nights in the forest!"
She had turned, and was looking at him with wide eyes.
"And this morning when I talked with your mother, she seemed so sure."
"She thought it was Ethelberta," said Henrietta, miserably. Her voice was a whisper. Her eyes had grown very wide and dark.
He stared at her. "Ethelberta? Never!"
Then the eyes laughed at him archly—as they had laughed at him before in that other world. And he bent toward them. "Then you meant me!" she said softly. "Me!"
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1951, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 72 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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