The Happy Man/Chapter 8

It was comfortably cool on the porch, From the library door a broad path of yellow light crossed the reed mat, worked strange effects with the thick foliage of a hydrangea in a tub, and stepped down into the garden from whence came spring sounds and fragrance. Treetoads were gossiping out there, and early blossoms nodded their heads in the dim radiance of a young moon already setting behind the feathery tops of the elms, and yielded spicy perfume to the sighs of a southerly breeze. Beryl stretched herself in the long wicker chair, beyond the shaft of light, and Allan seated himself nearby with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

“Houses,” he said, “should be used only to sleep in. May I smoke a pipe, Miss Vernon?”

“Certainly. Is that why I have a headache?”

“Oh, no. I wanted to talk to you. Do you—mind very much?”

“I'm flattered. Do you always have your way, may I ask?”

“Only when it is good for me.”

“And who is the judge of that? Mr. Shortland?”

“Oh, no; Providence, I think. Do you believe in it, Miss Vernon?”

“In Providence? Why, I suppose so. That is, of course. Don't you, Mr. Shortland?”

“Yes, and never so much as now. Surely nothing but Providence brought me to your gate the other day.”

“Oh! And—just what do you mean by that, Mr. Shortland?”

“That I have wanted to find you a long time, Miss Vernon.”

“To find me? But I thought it was the house with the friendly windows you sought.”

“And perhaps a face at a window.” “Mine, Mr. Shortland?” She laughed softly. “How very flattering!”

“You laugh at that? Then, you forget what I told you the other day: that we have met before?”

“Do you mean it? Are you serious?” she asked curiously. “I'm ashamed to say that I don't recall it. That isn't very complimentary, is it? But I'm afraid it's true.”

“Oh, you had no chance to remember. The meeting was—well, one-sided.”

“How interesting! When and where was it, Mr. Shortland?”

“Let me do a picture for you. A night—why, like this, with just such a moon, to be seen now and then at the end of some dim canyon of dark walls. Instead of this fragrance of flowers and dewy earth, the bouquet of Venice, that half-stale smell of water that mingles with a thousand other odors from open doorways or windows.”

“Venice!” she murmured.

“Venice, and the Rio della Madonnetta. The darkness is flecked here and there with the red gleam from a gondola, and in the darker shadows of the shuttered house-walls stars are twinkling far down in the green water. Sometimes an open doorway sends a path of yellow light across the darkness. Faintly sounds the tinkle of distant music, and the lisping splash of the dipping oar keeps time to it. In a gondola are three persons, a man, a woman, and a girl. Ahead of them the red light of their lantern swims along the water-road. For a moment the purple sky, silver-washed by the sinking moon, is shut from sight by the deep black shadow of a bridge. Then again the cool, green gloom of the open canal and the blank mystery of the houses with their shuttered windows and the lapping of the water against the walls.  'Premié!'  cries the poppe as the gondola swings around the corner.  'Sta-i-i!'  And then, '' 'Sciar! Sciar! Signori!' '' for another gondola has slipped from the deeper shadows of the smaller canal, and the two come together”

“And that was you!” she exclaimed wonderingly.

“I who reached out instinctively as the boats jostled, and who, by what we call chance, closed my hand upon your hand for a moment in the darkness. It was all over in an instant. The boats floated apart, the poppes consigning each other to perdition courteously and musically, but in that instant the light from a lantern fell across your face. Then our hands parted and our gondolas slipped away into the green shadows. And not until then did I find the ring.”

“The ring?” she asked.

“You didn't know? See.” He drew something from his pocket and held it toward her. She took it and leaned forward into the light.

“My ring!” she marveled. how”

“It must have been very loose on your finger,” he replied, “for when my hand came away from yours it drew the ring with it. I assure you the theft was not intentional. When I discovered it there, clenched in my palm, I bade the poppe turn back and seek you. We followed many lights, but didn't find yours. And then, the next day, I advertised. Had you seen the paper”

“We left Venice the next day. That was our last evening there. And I never even suspected that I had lost the ring in that way! It was always loose and always falling off, and I thought I had just dropped it somewhere without knowing. And to think of finding it again in this way! And after—why, that must have been four years ago, Mr. Shortland!”

“Yes, four years ago, Miss Vernon.” He held out his hand to her.

“The ring?” she asked, and dropped it into his hand again. He returned it to his pocket.

“Oh!” she said in surprise. “Then I'm not to have it, after all?”

“If you demand it,” he replied. “I had hoped, since it is not intrinsically very valuable, you would allow me to keep it as a reward for returning it, Miss Vernon. Besides, it was a queer little adventure in its way, and I should like something to—well, something as a souvenir. The ring answers excellently.”

“But—but it is really mine, Mr. Shortland,” she protested.

“And you value it very highly for reasons of association?” he asked.

“N-no, not very. It was one that a friend gave me at school. It is only a little turquoise.”

“That is all. And I am very fond of turquoise; and very fond of this ring. Thank you.”

“But I haven't given it to you yet,” she laughed.

“Then, don't, Miss Vernon. Merely allow me to keep it.”

“If you wish to,” she answered indifferently. After a moment she added, “And you recognized me the other day at once, Mr. Shortland? You must have a remarkable memory.”

“If I said the obvious thing, you'd accuse me again of flattery. So I won't. Have you been in Venice since?”

“No, that was the first and only time. You have, though, I suppose.”

“Yes, and haunted the canals; but—I never found you.”

“Did you go back just to find—the owner of the ring?” she asked.

“Just to find the owner,” he replied gravely.

“And now, having found her, you refuse to give it up!”

“Yes.”

“Suppose I demand it?”

“Then, I should have to return it.”

“Oh!” She shrugged. “You disarm me.” After a moment, “I wish,” she continued, “you'd tell me something, Mr. Shortland.”

“Willingly. It is—?”

“Where you fell from.”

“There's no mystery about it, Miss Vernon. I left New York a fortnight or so ago, journeyed to Boston with a friend in his car, spent a day there renewing old acquaintances, and then started out afoot to see the world—and find the house with the dove-cot.”

“And when you have found it you will settle down and raise pigeons and never go a-roaming again?”

“I'd rather not promise all that,” he replied with a smile. “At least, I should always go back to it.”

“You travel a great deal, don't you, Mr. Shortland?”

“Yes."

“And I suppose you've been to lots of places.”

“A good many, Miss Vernon.”

“You spoke the other day of Dorset. Have you—spent much time in England?”

“Not a great deal. The time I visited Dorset I was tramping. I get to London occasionally on my way somewhere else.”

“You must meet a great many people?”

“Yes, one does. Folks are easier to meet on the road than in their own yards. That's one reason I like the road, I think.”

“I wonder,” said Beryl, “if you ever ran across a Mr. Leeds, Kenneth Leeds, in London. He's a younger son of Lord Lowerby.”

“Yes, I know him quite well. I met him crossing over a year ago. Afterwards I spent a week with him at his father's place in Derbyshire.”

“Oh!” Beryl was silent a moment. “I understand,” she went on, “that he is to be married.” “Really? I didn't know. He's a fine fellow, and I wish him luck. Whom is he to marry?”

“I don't know the name. She is from Pittsburgh, and, I think, quite well off.”

“I'm glad to hear of his good fortune. The young lady will get a good husband, I think.”

“And possibly,” suggested Beryl, “a title.”

“Possibly. The elder son is not in good health, I believe. You know them, Miss Vernon?”

“I met Mr. Leeds in London the summer before last. Then he was over here after that for some time.” She hesitated. “Mr. Shortland, don't you know?” she asked after a moment.

“I think not, Miss Vernon.”

“Well, Mr. Leeds and I were—engaged. It—was broken off.”

“I never heard of it,” said Allan thoughtfully. “I'm—sorry. Or—at least” He paused. “May I ask when it was, Miss Vernon?”

“Nearly-a year ago; in August. It—was horrible. Every one talked so; the papers and—and every one. I thought perhaps you knew about it, and wondered at my asking about Mr. Leeds.”

“No, so many things go on that I don't learn of,” he answered. “You see, I am away from here a good deal. I think it must have been just afterwards that I met him going over. He seemed—I was sorry for him without knowing why, Miss Vernon. And now I know.”

“I don't think he needed much sympathy, Mr. Shortland. At all events, you see—he—has found consolation.”

Allan made no reply.

“I don't know just why I should bore you with this,” said Beryl. She laughed, apparently at herself. “Do ladies often make a confidant of you, Mr. Shortland?” “Invariably,” he replied lightly. “Were I to tell you even a half of the secrets locked within this breast”

“But I haven't told you any secret,” she sighed. “Every one knows it. That's the horrible part of it. It was all so—so awfully public, you see. Oh, I suppose I am silly, but—I've felt horribly disgraced ever since!”

“Yes, I'd say you were silly,” he agreed. “I can understand the notoriety being painful, but it's the price you must pay for being—well, in the world's eye. And you were not to blame because, as I presume, the papers went into hysterics. And certainly there is no question of disgrace, Miss Vernon. I wonder—I wonder if you haven't been taking it too seriously!”

“Yes, I have. I've been a perfect little selfish beast, Mr. Shortland. And I didn't know it until the other day—the day you appeared at the gate. Then Mamma informed me of it. She didn't use just those words, but—she told me. Please tell me why I am saying all this to you, Mr. Shortland!”

“Because of the ring, Miss Vernon.”

“The ring? Oh! Then, you'd better give it back to me, if it is going to have such an effect as—as this!”

“All the more reason for keeping it.”

“Oh, I shan't do it again,” she declared. “Come, let's go in and see who has won. My headache is heaps better!”