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Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
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Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
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45 young men made nothing at all of giving a pretty girl a kiss, and he remembered that the night before, when he had put his arm about Mattie, she had not resisted. But that had been out-of-doors, under the open irresponsible night. Now, in the warm lamplit room, with all its ancient implications of conformity and order, she seemed infinitely farther away from him and more unapproachable. To ease his constraint he said: “I suppose they’ll be setting a date before long.” “Yes. I shouldn’t wonder if they got married some time along in the summer.” She pronounced the word married as if her voice caressed it. It seemed a rustling covert leading to enchanted glades. A pang shot through Ethan, and he said, twisting away from her in his chair: “It’ll be your turn next, I wouldn’t wonder.” She laughed a little uncertainly. “Why do you keep on saying that?” He echoed her laugh. “I guess I do it to get used to the idea.” He drew up to the table again and she sewed on in silence, with dropped lashes, while he sat in fascinated contemplation of the way in which her hands went up and down above the strip of stuff, just as he had seen a pair of birds make short perpendicular flights over a nest they were building. At length, without turning her head or lifting her lids, she said in a low tone: “It’s not because you think Zeena’s got anything against me, is it?” His former dread started up full-armed at the suggestion. “Why, what do you mean?” he stammered. She raised distressed eyes to his, her work dropping on the table between them. “I don’t know. I thought last night she seemed to have.” “I’d like to know what,” he growled. “Nobody can tell with Zeena.” It was the first time they had ever spoken so openly of her attitude toward Mattie, and the repetition of the name seemed to carry it to the farther corners of the room and send it back to them in long repercussions of sound. Mattie waited, as if to give the echo time to drop, and then went on: “She hasn’t said anything to you?” He shook his head. “No, not a word.” She tossed the hair back from her forehead with a laugh. “I guess I’m just nervous, then. I’m not going to think about it any more.” “Oh, no-don’t let’s think about it, Matt!” The sudden heat of his tone made her colour mount again, not with a rush, but gradually, delicately, like the reflection of a thought stealing slowly across her heart. She sat silent, her hands clasped on her work, and it seemed to him that a warm current flowed toward him along the strip of stuff that still lay unrolled between them. Cautiously he slid his hand palm-downward along the table till his finger-tips touched the end of the stuff. A faint vibration of her lashes seemed to show that she was aware of his gesture, and that it had sent a counter- |
