The Wonderful Night

R. BETTERLEE gathered together the papers on the broad mahogany desk and, with careful precision, weighted them with a small bronze copy of the Lion of Lucerne. It was not that there was any likelihood of the letters being disarranged, for through the four great windows not the faintest breeze entered and Mr. Betterlee's servants were not of the careless sort. Carelessness and Mr. Betterlee were incapable of abiding together under one roof. He merely weighted the documents because he always did weight them. Being extremely methodical and, like all men of his years—he was fifty-odd—who have succeeded in amassing a large fortune, a slave to habit, he could no more have left them unweighted than he could have spread the meager tails of his dinner-jacket and floated aloft to the big white bed in the room above which had been inviting him for two hours.

He pushed the small tray holding an empty coffee-cup to a position twelve inches from the corner of the desk nearest to the hall door and glanced at the clock. Its hands were clasped, and, if corroboration was needed, the village clock sent twelve peals across the midnight world. Mr. Betterlee, from force of habit, opening his mouth to yawn, found to his surprise that no yawn was forthcoming, and frowned accusingly at the empty coffee-cup. Then, being a just man, he mentally exonerated the coffee-cup and laid the blame on himself. He was not in the habit of drinking coffee at night and it was only the fact that the New York office had sent him the papers in a matter which required immediate consideration that had caused a departure from the straight and narrow path of custom.

He felt abnormally, reprehensibly wide awake. In town Mr. Betterlee was frequently required to keep late hours; Mrs. Betterlee saw to that; but in the summer he was his own master and bedtime for the entire establishment, from Mr. Betterlee himself down to the scullery-maid, was ten o'clock. He had, however, no excuse for further absence from bed. And yet bed had never seemed less attractive!

He turned out the green-shaded lamp on the desk, and through the four great embrasures swept a flood of mellow moonlight that played strange pranks with the hues of the Persian carpet. He crossed to the nearer of the big windows. Beyond the terrace stretched the broad lawn, almost as light as day. The blue gravel drive, sweeping through clustered shrubs, looked like a silver stream. Mr. Betterlee marveled.

"A wonderful night!" he murmured.

He passed through the window and, softly, lest his criminal absence from his couch be discovered, he stepped to the balustrade. How silent the world was! Not a leaf moved, not a bird stirred in its nest. Below him the scarlet sage had changed its hue to a queer, indescribable shade that was neither red nor purple, but some strange unearthly blending of the two. The stillness was like that of a hot noontide, but there seemed no somnolence in it. Mr. Betterlee had the feeling that the world was wide awake; motionless, watchful, holding its breath. For many minutes he stood there. The moonlight gleamed on his face, silvered the grizzled hair at his temples, softened the sharp, straight nose, and warmed the steely blueness of his eyes. Perhaps the moon exerted a subtler influence, too. Strange virtues have been claimed for it. A few minutes later, keeping to the shadows of the shrubbery, Mr. Betterlee descended the drive unhurriedly. Once he cast a cautious glance toward the windows of the house, but not a curtain stirred. Past the gateway, he smiled and threw back his shoulders. The well-kept village road was a tunnel of alternate shadow and moonlight, a silent, mysterious cloister-path, deserted save for the solitary, severely erect figure. Pausing in the shadow of a maple, he found and lighted a cigar with a sort of desperate determination. Cigars after midnight were forbidden, unthought of these many years. Perhaps for that very reason this excellent cigar tasted like none other of its kind, seemed to gather some marvelous quality of fragrance and delectability from the magic of the night. He exhaled a cloud of smoke with a lingering sigh of rapture and then, turning his back on gateway and precedent, went adventurously forth.

The still air held a faint, illusive fragrance; a fragrance that sent the man's memory groping back over the busy years until it halted at a day some thirty years ago. His honeymoon had been less than a week old then, and they had stepped ashore from the steamer at a little Indian village beyond Quebec and bought sweet-grass baskets. Ah, that was it! The fragrance of the August night was like that of sweet-grass. Mr. Betterlee was pleased at having made the discovery; pleased, too, that his memory had proved equal to the task, since it reassured him as to the possible approach of senility. And the recollection of that day at Lorette—if it was Lorette—and of the other days of that far-distant honeymoon left him in a softened mood as he wandered on through ebony shadows and pools of pale gold.

Then the road turned slightly and the trees stopped, and the moonlight was obstructed only by the gate that led to Mr. Betterlee's farm buildings and by the ornamental fence that bordered the highway. Or, stay! Was there not a form, perhaps two forms, on the nearer of the two stone benches that flanked the gate? Confused by the sudden transition from shadow to light, he blinked and stared. Then a voice came to him, respectfully defiant:

"Good evening, sir."

Mr. Betterlee paused in surprise.

"Mayes!" he ejaculated. "Er—Hannah!"

Mayes cleared his throat nervously. With Mr. Betterlee's unexpected appearance the form that had seemed one became a doubtful two. Mr. Betterlee suddenly realized the need of explaining his presence. He, too, cleared his throat. Only the maid retained composure. Mr. Betterlee spoke first.

"I—er—was not sleepy; doubtless the coffee—"

"I feared it, sir," agreed the butler.

"And so, since it was such a wonderful night, I—er—I thought I'd take a stroll. I didn't expect to find—er—"

It was not intended as a reprimand, but Mayes accepted it as such.

"I think, sir, you might as well know," he announced, stiffly, doggedly. "We—we're married, sir!"

"Married!" Mr. Betterlee was mildly surprised. Mayes continued a trifle bitterly:

"Yes, sir, we've been married for 'most a year. I know it's against the rules, sir, but we were—extremely fond of each other, sir, and there was another chap annoying her with his attentions, and so—so we done it. I'm sorry, sir, but—"

"Sorry?" asked Mr. Betterlee, slightly shocked.

"Sorry, I mean, to disobey your rules; not sorry otherwise, sir. And we'll be sorry to leave your service, sir; both of us will. You and the Madame have been extraordinary kind, sir—"

"Leave my service?" echoed Mr. Betterlee. "But why do you—er—contemplate that, Mayes?"



"Why, you said as how you wouldn't have any married persons in your employ, sir. I knew you'd find it out sooner or later, and I took the risk; both of us did, sir. Rules are rules, and I don't complain, Mr. Betterlee. I—I only regret—we both of us regrets—having deceived you, sir."

"Hm." Mr. Betterlee understood. As Mayes said, rules were rules, and— But he would be very, very sorry to lose Mayes. Mayes understood him so well. And—and it was a wonderful night!

"It's a bit hard, sir, when you care for a person not being able to—to—" Mayes's voice trailed out into silence.

"Hm," said Mr. Betterlee again. He realized that he should be stern. Such a flagrant disobedience of his orders merited the harshest reprimand, followed by instant dismissal. Only, somehow, to-night—

"If you wouldn't mind letting us have a month's notice, sir, to do a bit of looking about," suggested Mayes more humbly.

"Er—yes, yes," responded Mr. Betterlee, nastily. "I—the fact is, Mayes—" He halted lamely. Then, "You were—are—very fond of Hannah?"

"Begging pardon, sir, it ain't Hannah; it's Therese."

"Therese! God bless my soul!" ejaculated Mr. Betterlee. He peered across incredulously. It was Therese; Therese the prim, the—the— Mr. Betterlee had almost said, "the ugly"! But just now, with the moonlight on her face, "ugly" was not deserved. He felt very helpless. "I hardly know what to say," he muttered. "I suppose, though, if you loved each other—hm—"

"Worship's the word, sir," said Mayes, fondly, proudly. "Ain't it, T'ese?"

There was no response from the maid, but the two figures melted again into one. Mr. Betterlee coughed, tried to scowl, failed, and looked longingly at the road. There was asilence. Then: "Love's something you can't lay under no rule, Mr. Betterlee," said the butler. "If it comes to a person, it comes, sir, and there ain't no help for it. Anyway, what's done is done, and we ain't complaining. Only thing is, sir, if we could have a month to look about— At this time of year places aren't so easy to find, and in the matter of references, I presume you wouldn't care to give 'em, sir.

"I wish you wouldn't go so fast," remonstrated Mr. Betterlee a trifle querulously. "As you say, Mayes, what's done is done, and—er—I'd be sorry to lose you. And Mrs. Betterlee would be sorry to lose Therese. I—I shall overlook it this time, Mayes, but don't let it— That is— Hm! A—a wonderful night, Mayes!" "Y-yes, sir, a wonderful night!" murmured Mayes.

Mr. Betterlee went on, hurriedly, much relieved. Where the trees closed in again he paused in the shadow and looked back. The form on the bench was smaller than before. Mr. Betterlee sighed. He remembered—but that was long since. Now he was—well, never mind; he was an oldish man; and love was for the young. To be young on a night like this, and in love, must be very wonderful! His cigar had gone out and he paused to light it again. As he did so the sound of faint music came to him, jaunty, merry, elfin music. He peered ahead through the alternate shadow and moonlight and presently his eyes descried a small figure. A moment later the figure resolved itself into a boy, barefooted, scantily attired, who played softly on a mouth-organ cupped in his small hands. The music ceased and the player turned.

"Hello," he greeted, friendly and unabashed.

"Good evening," responded Mr. Betterlee, with a smile. He was surprised to find that he was not in the least embarrassed. Children—Mr. Betterlee had none of his own—always embarrassed him. They said such astonishingly disconcerting things, were animated by such uncomprehendable motives!

"Huh," said the boy, with a chuckle, "I guess it's good mornin' now! Where you goin'?"

"Nowhere in particular. I'm just taking a walk. Where are you going?"

The boy glanced at him sidewise, hesitated, and then answered, "Swimmin'." "Swimming!" said Mr. Betterlee. "At this time of night?"

"Sure!" The boy put his mouth-organ back to his lips and played a few notes softly. "Didn't you ever go swimmin' in moonlight?"

Mr. Betterlee thought hard and owned that he never had.

"It's great," said the lad. "Things—things look different in moonlight. Everything. Trees, leaves, water. It's fun. I do it often. Folks don't know, of course. They wouldn't let me if they knew. I climb out on the shed roof and drop off."

"I see. And where do you swim?"

"Over there." He waved a hand. "In the creek. There's a fine swimmin'-hole. I went in last night, too."

"Did you?" asked Mr. Betterlee.

The boy went on silently, his bare feet making no sound on the road. He wore only a pair of short trousers and a shirt. He had a merry, round face on which the big freckles stood out in the moonlight like dots of red copper.

"Let me hear you play," suggested Mr. Betterlee, accommodating his steps to the boy's.

"Oh, I can't play much," was the reply. But he put the instrument to his mouth again and, swaying from side to side, his brown eyes fixed on his companion, he played. What the tune was his audience didn't know, but it was a cheery little tune that set the fingers of Mr. Betterlee's loosely clasped hands dancing behind his back. Then the boy changed to "Suwanee River." Mr. Betterlee knew that air and he hummed it under his breath. Then-

"Do you know 'Robin Adair'?" he asked, almost apologetically.

"How's she go?" demanded the boy.

Mr. Betterlee thought a moment, then, pursing his lips, essayed the first bar. The effort was not very successful, but it served. The boy took up the tune and carried it, with some few variations to the end. Then he played it again, more correctly this time; and Mr. Betterlee half closed his eyes and recalled other moonlight nights, nights he had not recalled for many years. And he sighed once or twice not unhappily, but rather wistfully, and awoke to the fact that the tune had ceased and that the boy had stopped in the road.

"Here's where I cut across," he said.

"Cut across?"

"Sure; across the field to the creek. Want to come?"

"Yes," said Mr. Betterlee without hesitation.

"Good for you! You're a sport! Do you live around here?"

"Er—yes, not far off. Only in the summer, however."



"Thought I hadn't seen you before. Just the same, things—and folks—look different in moonlight, and I might have, too." The boy lifted his face to the big, round moon. "Gee!" he muttered, "it's a hunky old night, ain't it?"

"It's a wonderful night," was the reply.

The pool lay in a bend of the creek, shadowed in places by alders and the dripping branches of a willow. The moon lay there awaiting them, afloat on the unruffled surface. The boy dropped his garments on the bank, poised for an instant like a warmly hued statue and then disappeared. Widening circles rippled across the mirrored face of the moon and a sleek brown head appeared under the farther bank.

"Gee!" said the boy. "It's great!"

He swam along under the bending branches, his white body strangely immaterial in the lucid depths, the drops trickling from arm and shoulder like pale jewels. He swam with scarcely a sound to disturb the tranquil, brooding silence of the place. Mr. Betterlee, watching from the bank, recalled forgotten lore of water-sprites and nereids. The boy circled at the end of the pool and came back, straight into the reflected orb, and for the moment a confusion of senses made it seem to the watcher that the slim, gleaming body was suspended in air, afloat in moonlit heavens. Then the illusion was dispelled, for the swimmer bobbed a dripping head from the ripples, and laughed softly in the stillness.

"Say, why don't you come in, Mister? Honest, the water's great!"

Beneath Mr. Betterlee's immaculate shirt-front a pagan impulse stirred. The mirrored moon enticed him. The ripples beckoned. Even the silence became as a voice that urged. He stared in fascination for a moment, glanced speculatingly into the shadows. There was an impish chuckle from the pool. It was echoed from the bank. Mr. Betterlee grasped the lapels of his dinner-jacket....

The village clock struck two as Mr. Betterlee turned into the avenue. He was humming under his breath a tune which faintly suggested "Robin Adair." His shirt-bosom gaped rakishly. He approached the house intrepidly, almost with a swagger, for all the world as though there were no such things as Rules!

As he ascended the terrace steps a figure wrapped in pale poppies on a white ground detached itself from the balustrade and came slowly toward him.

"My dear!" murmured Mr. Betterlee. "You up!"

"Yes, I was wakeful, and I saw you were not in bed—"

"I went for a walk," said Mr. Betterlee, hurriedly. "Mayes brought me coffee to the library. I ought not to have taken it."

"No; it always keeps you awake," agreed Mrs. Betterlee.

They paused at the broad stone railing and looked down over the moonlit lawn in silence. The man was visioning a small boy with wet hair ascending to a shed roof by way of a rain-barrel. The woman—

"I wonder if you remember, dear," she said, dreamily, "it was just such a night as this when we were married. I remember the moon from the car window. And before that, when we were driving to the station. You spoke of it, and quoted some lines—I wish I could recall them—"

"So it was," he said, softly. "Just such a night as this. Yes, yes, I remember very well, my dear." He laid a hand over one of hers that rested on the railing.

"Why, how cool your hand is!" she exclaimed. Then: "It is very beautiful here, isn't it? We ought to be happy in such a place. See how the moonlight silvers the leaves of the birches down there."

"Happy? We are happy, my dear! Aren't we?" His hand closed about hers.

"Y-yes." But he thought he heard the merest ghost of a sigh, and was faintly troubled. Her hand was nestled in his now and he pressed it reassuringly.

"Of course we are!" he asserted, stoutly. After a moment, hesitatingly, "By the way, my dear, I learned to-night, quite by accident, that—er—Mayes and—Therese—" "Are married," said Mrs. Betterlee, tranquilly. "Yes, I've known it some time." "Known it! But you never mentioned it!" Mr. Betterlee's voice strove for severity but attained only a mild querulousness.

"N-no, you see"—she pressed his fingers apologetically—"you were so strict—and I didn't want to lose Therese."

"Hm," said Mr. Betterlee; and again, "Hm."

She turned to the open window and he followed. On the threshold she paused for a last look. Mr. Betterlee's arm went about her with a sort of awkward determination and, with a faint sigh, she swayed to him. The moonlight bathed her hair in soft glory and smoothed the lines from her face. Thirty years, reflected Mr. Betterlee in some surprise, had made but little difference; she was still an extremely pretty woman! He wondered why that fact had escaped him of late. Life, however, had been very busy; he had had so many things on his mind.

He bent slowly and kissed her. Her arms went about him and she murmured, shyly, inarticulately against the damp, creased bosom of his shirt. After a moment she drew away a little, still holding his hand at her waist, and gazed happily over the moon-swept world.

"It is such a wonderful night!" she whispered.

"A wonderful night indeed!" echoed Mr. Betterlee.